


Winds of Change 2010

by kronette



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mr. Kuryakin, are you willing to talk now?” the Thrush agent behind him asked. </p><p>He licked his lips, but the only moisture his tongue came across was his own blood. “Afraid not,” he rasped through his tightened throat. He’d lost track of how long he’d been held captive. Days, weeks, perhaps months. In that time, he’d had very little food and even less water. He couldn’t tell day from night. And he was beginning to not care if he ever did again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> The earliest date I have on my files is June 2000, so I assume that's roughly when I started this story. The file was titled "Uncletorture," as it starts with Illya in the hands of Thrush. My descriptions of torture are intense but brief, and I'd dub this story more hurt/comfort than anything. Napoleon hurts too, just in a different way.

The first thing he was aware of was the sharp pain. It reached from his ankle up to his knee, although it didn’t end there. Every inch of him hurt in one form or another. From the minor bruises and scrapes he’d received climbing the side of the wall, to the wounds he’d received upon return to the Thrush satrap, his body was one large pain receptor. He knew he was dying; it was reflected in every ache of his body.

“Mr. Kuryakin, are you willing to talk now?” the Thrush agent behind him asked. 

He licked his lips, but the only moisture his tongue came across was his own blood. “Afraid not,” he rasped through his tightened throat. He’d lost track of how long he’d been held captive. Days, weeks, perhaps months. In that time, he’d had very little food and even less water. He couldn’t tell day from night. And he was beginning to not care if he ever did again. 

~~~

“Sir, Illya’s been missing for three weeks. I think it’s time I…”

“Mr. Solo, we’re not going to have a repeat of the Strago affair, are we?” Mr. Alexander Waverly chastised his number one agent. 

Napoleon Solo held Waverly’s gaze, but only for a brief moment. Several years ago when Illya had been on an island targeted for destruction, Napoleon had insisted on saving him. Waverly had been generous enough to give him 15 hours to save his partner, and he had. But then they were sure Illya had been taken alive. Kuryakin had gone missing on assignment in Iran three weeks ago. His last communiqué had reported everything normal and that he would contact U.N.C.L.E. again at the appointed hour. That was almost a month ago. U.N.C.L.E. presumed him dead. Napoleon, Illya’s partner, refused to believe that. 

Napoleon stood his ground opposite the large, round desk. “Sir, he reported status quo and then his communicator went dead two hours later. Something happened to him.” 

Waverly sifted through the papers on his desk, but didn’t look up. “Yes, Mr. Solo, we are aware of that. There was an explosion at the café where he was waiting for his contact. You saw the pictures yourself.” 

The pictures Mr. Waverly referred to were of the rubble. Illya’s communicator, as well as wallet, suit jacket, gun, holster, and assorted personal effects were scattered along with random body parts of the patrons. Two witnesses placed Illya at the café when the explosion rocked it to the ground. There had been very little else to go on. 

“Yes sir, I did. But…”

“Mr. Solo,” Waverly snapped as he slammed the files he had been looking at to the tabletop. “We confirmed the findings. Mr. Kuryakin was a great loss to this organization, however, he was still expendable. And I have put up with your irrationality long enough. Either let this go or turn in your credentials.” 

Napoleon Solo, Section One, Number Two for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, lowered his gaze to the floor. He reached into his jacket and removed his U.N.C.L.E. ID card and communicator pen. He placed them on the desk in Waverly’s office, turned on his heel, and left U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. 

~~~

Seventeen…eighteen…nineteen…he waited for the twentieth blow, but it didn’t connect. He held his breath against the anticipated attack, wondering why they had stopped. 

“Mr. Kuryakin, one would think you enjoy this.” 

He tried to make a comeback retort, but his tongue was dried to the roof of his mouth. He pressed his cheek against the cold stone and closed his eyes. He flexed his fingers, trying to get the circulation through them again. He’d scraped the nails past the tip of his fingers and they were starting to bleed. Each time the beatings started up again, he instinctively reached for something to focus on; something to take his mind off the constant battering his body was undergoing. 

He had nothing to grab onto. His wrists were shackled to the wall; his palms flush with the unforgiving rock. He had been released from them exactly three times; once to nearly drown him, once to nearly incinerate him, and the last time to nearly electrocute him. He preferred the wall. It was a steady constant, almost as steady as…

The twentieth blow hit the tender spot above his kidney and he screamed hoarsely. A thin rivulet of blood trickled down his arm, following the dried paths before it. Another nail gone. Another beating finished. Another respite, though for how long, he couldn’t say. 

His breath rattled in his chest as he tried to catch his breath. His head slid downward until his forehead rested against his arm. The stench of blood filled his nostrils; his wrists were bleeding again. The shackles were rough and rusted, and they had rubbed his skin raw. The feel of his own blood coating his skin had ceased to faze him. Hardly any of this fazed him now. There was the constant low pain, overlaid with the frequent bolts of intense agony. 

A voice hissed in his ear, “You will tell us what you know…eventually. We will be back.” 

The footsteps retreated and he was left alone with his traitorous thoughts once again. He wished he could see the sky. He longed for the taste of Stoli vodka. It was the simple things he missed; the stars shining, reading a good book…sitting down. Oh, how he longed to just sit down! A soft groan escaped his lips before he could stop it. He wouldn’t think of things he couldn’t have. It was pointless and went against everything he had been taught. He tried to shift to a more comfortable position and bit back a cry. He leaned heavily to his right to relieve the pressure on his left leg. It had twisted horribly when he had tried his one attempt at escape. 

Hands cuffed together, he had darted down corridor after corridor, looking for an exit. The stone walls were unending with no doors and no windows; only the dim light from the bulbs above. He crashed into a wall at the end of one corridor; he had miscalculated the distance. Shaking off his momentary dizziness, he spotted a window about halfway up the ten foot wall. Wildly glancing around, he couldn’t find anything to help him reach it. He dug his fingertips into the mortar and carefully started to pull himself up the wall. A bullet whined by his ear, startling him and he lost his grip. He landed full weight on his left leg, twisting his body as he fell with a cry of pain. 

They hauled him off to the first of three punishments, thankfully halfway carrying him. He couldn’t walk in his current condition. Unfortunately, they had held him underwater for longer than he could hold his breath and he nearly choked to death before they threw him to the floor. He hadn’t broken, though. Even after the stench of his own flesh burning had sickened him; he hadn’t given them any information. 

If they unshackled him from the wall one more time, however, he would either crack or die. He didn’t want to know what else they could inflict on his abused body. He didn’t want to think any further than that, so he willed his tired mind and body to sleep…dreading his wake up call. 

~~~

Napoleon patted the plane ticket to Tehran inside his jacket and kept his head down. He was well-known in the spy game, and he didn’t want any Thrush agents following him. He fully intended to do the following this time. He knew Illya had to be alive. He had seen the evidence, but there had been no body that matched his partner’s description. Just a few of his things, which could easily have been taken off Illya’s person before he was abducted. 

They announced his flight and he gathered his things. He waited patiently in line, then headed toward the back of the plane. He snagged a blanket on the way to his seat. He settled himself against the window, drew the blanket across his awkwardly sprawled frame, and closed his eyes. He didn’t know if he would get any sleep, but he didn’t want to be disturbed. He hadn’t really slept since Illya’s communicator went silent. 

Before he’d walked out of U.N.C.L.E., he had read through the full report on Kuryakin’s mission. Illya had been sent to Iran to locate Dr. Li Hoang, a leading scientist in biochemistry. The doctor claimed to have perfected a deadly undetectable airborne virus. Illya had been sent to confirm the findings and to give the doctor protection from Thrush. For undoubtedly, if U.N.C.L.E. had heard of the virus, Thrush had as well, and if it was as powerful as the doctor claimed, it could not fall into Thrush’s hands. 

Since arriving in Mashhad, Illya was to report in every two hours. Napoleon had last heard from him at one o’clock local time. Illya was to have met with the doctor at the café Tuesday afternoon at two o’clock. For a brief moment, he had considered that Illya had merely been captured and couldn’t report in. Then the reports and photographs had come through, and it was hard to deny what the evidence showed – but he had. 

U.N.C.L.E. had sent teams out to investigate, but their findings confirmed the reports; Agent Kuryakin had died in the café explosion. Napoleon had refused to attend the memorial, despite many requests that he needed it for ‘closure’. To hell with their kind of closure. He wouldn’t rest until he saw Illya’s body for himself – either dead or alive. 

~~~

He screamed at the crackle of electricity against his lower back. Nerve endings on fire; his entire body spasmed. The convulsions threw him against the wall again and again, ripping the barely-healed skin from his wrists and chest. His eyes rolled back in his head and he prayed he would die right then. Another scream was choked off as he gagged at the smell of his own flesh burning. 

Abruptly the source of the torment deserted him, but his flesh still sparked with pain. The blood running down his arm felt like spikes driven through his veins. A hand in his hair forced his head back and that same damned voice whispered, “Who said you could sleep?” 

Wave after wave of nausea rolled through his body, but he had nothing to throw up. His stomach curled and he tried to bend to relieve some of the pressure, but his captor’s body forced his upright. The rough cloth against his bare back made him want to squirm, but he didn’t dare move. Tears streamed down his face and he had to fight with himself not to beg the man to kill him. 

“Still not talking? You’re only hurting yourself. All you have to do is give me one little thing. The location of Dr. Li Hoang’s formula.” 

He took a shaky breath. Tiny tremors still wracked his body, and he tried to curl his hands to fists to ground himself. But his fingers refused to cooperate; the shock had jumbled his nerves. He wanted to turn his head away, but couldn’t. Not even the painful stretch of his neck detracted from the icy fire in his blood. “Go…to…hell,” he gasped. 

“You will tell us what we want to know, or you will feel pain for the rest of your life.” 

“Painful…to…look…look your face,” he choked out. That tiny spark of life deep inside him, the spark that let him survive his life up to this point, refused to let him give in. 

“You are a stubborn one. I like that.” 

He was released, and he dropped his forehead to the cold wall, trying to steady himself. Then his captor continued: 

“In fact, I hope you never talk. I can keep this up forever. Can you?” 

He listened to the footsteps trail off, and then Illya let his body sink as far as it could toward the floor. He hadn’t the strength to stand. He hadn’t the strength to fight. He gave in to the despair that resided just below his surface calm and silent tears signaled his surrender. 

~~~

Napoleon glanced weary-eyed around the airport in Mashhad. The transfer at Tehran hadn’t come soon enough. He had barely slept the whole flight over from New York, and his body was demanding rest. But his mind refused to listen. Illya was out there somewhere, and he wouldn’t stop until he found his partner. Calling for a taxi, he asked for the café where Illya was last seen. After questioning the few people there with no new results, he headed to Illya’s hotel. He doubted the room would still be unoccupied, but maybe someone there could help him. 

“Hello,” Napoleon greeted the man behind the desk. He pulled out a picture of Illya and held it up. “About a month ago, this man was staying here. I was wondering if he had left anything in his room?” 

“No, no,” the man immediately answered, waving him off. “Go away.” 

Suspicions took root in Napoleon’s head. Why was this man afraid? “Sir, I am merely trying to find out what happened to my friend. He was…they said he died in the café blast three weeks ago. I don’t believe it.” 

“Who are you?” the man asked, his distrust plainly evident. 

“Napoleon Solo. I used to work with him.” He tucked the photo back in his suit. 

Something in his voice must have struck a chord with the man, because he glanced furtively around, and then motioned Napoleon closer. “Is this man truly your friend?”

The ex-agent nodded. “Yes, he is. Do you know anything that might help me?” 

The man turned away from Napoleon, and he feared he had pushed too far. “He left something. He gave me much money to give only to a Solo.” The man whirled around and placed a small envelope in Napoleon’s hand, then backed away quickly. “Go now.” 

The handwriting was unfamiliar, but it spelled out ‘for Solo only’. “Thank you,” he whispered. He clutched it tight as he began wandering the streets. He didn’t look at it until he had gone several blocks to lose any potential followers. His hand started to shake as he opened the envelope. Illya’s necklace spilled out into his hand. He closed his eyes in with a wishful prayer. Illya had once told him that he never took the pendant off. If he had left it behind, it might contain some clue as to what happened to his partner. 

He scanned the area quickly, spotting a small inn not far down the street. He checked in and went to his room. Depositing everything but the necklace on the table, he riffled through his belongings to find a magnifying glass. He peered carefully at the necklace, looking for anything unusual. He swallowed hard as he discovered that the clasp was broken. It looked as though it had been ripped right off of Illya’s neck. The agent would have had to do it himself if he left it for Solo to retrieve. It also meant Illya had a feeling something bad would happen. If that were the case, Napoleon vowed that Illya’s last assignment would be completed. 

He bent to his task. There was a small nick along the bottom edge of the pendant. He reached for his small tools and started to work a needle-thin probe along the edge. A crack appeared and he pulled the back off the pendant. A microcircuit nestled inside. Whether it had always been there, or it was something Illya had put there recently, he couldn’t say. But now he needed someone to help him with it. He reached for his communicator pen, momentarily forgetting he had resigned. He knew of only one other organization that could possibly help him. Gathering his things, he set out to find himself a Thrush nest. 

~~~

He was stronger when they returned. Illya had pulled himself up with effort, and now resided in his customary position. His knee was worse now that he had aggravated it again, but at least he was standing. He would not let them win. He would not give his captor the satisfaction. He had never given in to any of his captors, and he’d be damned if he gave in to this one. 

A cup of juice aligned itself with his line of vision, and he drank it greedily. Bread and a slice of orange were next. As he swallowed the last bite, he had to dig his fingers into the wall to keep from begging for more. He gasped as his stomach started to cramp and his body tried to double over. 

That same damned voice tsked at him. “I should have warned you. We grow impatient waiting for you, so we’ve decided to drug any food you take. So you have a choice; eat and live with the suffering, or not eat and slowly starve to death.” 

“No…” he betrayed himself softly. 

The voice was immediately at his ear, breath hot against his cheek. “Then tell me the location. Tell me where Dr. Hoang put the formula,” the voice whispered. 

“No! Ahh!” he cried as his stomach recoiled. Sweat broke over his body as tiny pinpricks of agony stabbed him from the inside. 

“The location!” his captor demanded. 

“NO!” he screamed, then screamed again as something hard punched into his lower back, buckling his knees. He hung from his wrists, blissfully passed out from the overwhelming pain.


	2. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon turned to the new arrival, instantly assessing him as a man to dislike intensely. He was short and stocky with big hands. Not much by way of fighting offense, but it was his eyes that sent a shiver through Napoleon. His wire-rimmed glasses framed eyes wild with intellectual insanity. Solo hesitated a split second before answering, “Kuryakin.” 
> 
> The man gave a short nod. “Ah, I have heard of him. You say he’s dead?”

Napoleon walked the streets, stopping at the occasional stand and inquiring after several known Thrush agents. If he could get the buzz going, he would hopefully have contact soon and get the micro chip analyzed. As he turned a corner, he noted two men following him. Good. Thrush were efficient in this part of the world. He had only been at it a few hours and already they were tailing him. 

He turned another corner and backed up against the wall, waiting for the men to pass. Hands grabbed his lapels and hauled him back around the corner. 

“Hello, boys,” was all he managed to say before he was knocked unconscious. 

Napoleon awoke with a groan. He winced as he touched the back of his head, feeling the small lump there. He focused on the three men flanking him. “Gentlemen,” he acknowledged as he pulled himself to his feet. A quick glance around showed him in a large, ornately decorated room. “May I presume I have found Thrush?” 

One of the men gave himself away by his eyes, but the other two kept their faces impassive. 

He took a step towards them. “You realize I have been searching for you all day. My name is…”

“Napoleon Solo. Section One, Number Two, U.N.C.L.E.,” the man on the left replied for him. “We are aware of who you are, Mr. Solo. What we want to know is, why you are here.” 

“I already told you; I’ve been looking for you. I presume you’ve heard that I recently resigned.” All three Thrush agents glanced to one another. “I see you haven’t. You can contact anyone in New York; they’ll confirm my statement.” 

“Why would you leave U.N.C.L.E.?” the one on the left asked. 

Napoleon sized him up to be the man in charge, at least of this little group. Stocky man, not much bigger than himself. Beady little eyes. No-nonsense attitude. He lowered his head and recited, “My partner was killed while on assignment. I…haven’t been the same since. U.N.C.L.E. lost its appeal.” 

“So why look for us?” the Thrush agent asked in a bored tone. 

Solo looked directly at the leader and let his eyes shine furiously. “U.N.C.L.E. has no heart when it comes to lost agents. That man was my friend, and the best they could do was to tell me he was expendable. He deserved more. He deserved much more, damn it. He was one of the best.” 

“What was his name?” a new man asked. 

Napoleon turned to the new arrival, instantly assessing him as a man to dislike intensely. He was short and stocky with big hands. Not much by way of fighting offense, but it was his eyes that sent a shiver through Napoleon. His wire-rimmed glasses framed eyes wild with intellectual insanity. Solo hesitated a split second before answering, “Kuryakin.” 

The man gave a short nod. “Ah, I have heard of him. You say he’s dead?” 

“Yes,” Napoleon ground out through clenched teeth. He kept reminding himself that these men could help him. He removed Illya’s necklace and held it out in his hand. “I have this.” 

The men behind him drew their guns. The man in front reached out to take the pendant. “It is fine.” He motioned for the agents to put their guns down. He inspected the necklace and shrugged. “Why should I care about this? It is worthless.” 

Napoleon reached over and plucked it out of the man’s hand. “I doubt that. You see, nestled inside this little pendant resides a microcircuit. Does that…interest you in any way?” 

The man reached for it again, but the ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent carefully maneuvered it out of his reach. “No. I want information first.” 

The man with glasses retreated a step. “What could we know that you do not?” 

He took a deep breath and said, “The whereabouts of Kuryakin’s body.” 

“What makes you think we know anything of it?” 

The answer was too casual. Napoleon forced his emotions aside and concentrated on his performance. “Do you know where he was when he died?” 

The man offered a wide, toothy grin and shrugged. “I had not realized he was dead until you told us. How could we know where he was?”

He was lying; Napoleon would stake his life on it…he was staking his life on it. “He was here, in Mashhad. He was reported to be in a café when it exploded about three weeks ago. However, I don’t think he was actually there.” 

“Ah, the café. Yes, I heard about that.” The man shook his head sadly. “Such a tragedy. A great loss of life.” 

Napoleon took an impatient step forward, then took a deep breath to steady himself. It would do no good to show his hand this early in the game. “Do you know if Kuryakin was there or not?” 

Cold indifference descended over the man’s features. “I cannot help you.” 

Napoleon flipped the pendant back up into his hand, concealing it. “Then I cannot help you.” He circled on the ball of his foot and started to walk to the door he had spotted earlier. 

“Wait.” 

Napoleon’s heart beat faster as he turned back to the man. “Did you have a sudden memory recall?”

A shoulder raised in a nonchalant manner. “Something like that. Perhaps we can offer you help. In exchange for…” He waved to Napoleon’s hand, and Napoleon held the necklace tighter. 

“Perhaps. One thing; I want to be present when you analyze it. I’d like to know what was so valuable that it cost my friend his life.” More than half his performance was real, so he expressed only mild surprise that the Thrush agent agreed. 

“Very well. If you will follow me, we shall retire to the lab. I assume you want the information as soon as possible?” 

“If I could, yes. I have been anxious for weeks now, and I would like an end to the nightmare.” 

“I’m sure you would,” the man murmured, and Napoleon’s suspicions rose quickly. There was something odd about the man, though he couldn’t place what it was just yet. Some time with him might reveal the answer. 

He was escorted along numerous stone-lined corridors for a good number of minutes before they finally arrived at a door. The man opened it and bowed slightly. “Please,” he indicated Solo should go first. 

Nodding once, Napoleon entered the lab though he kept his senses on alert. Nothing seemed amiss and the Thrush agent followed him inside. 

The lab was impressive. Computers lined the walls and there were large stacks of printouts scattered on an even bigger table right in the middle of the room. 

“If you would have a seat, Mr. Solo,” the man requested.

Napoleon turned to ask a question, and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. “I see.” He took the stool nearest him. The man motioned over one of the other Thrush agents who followed him, and Napoleon’s wrists were quickly cuffed. 

“You understand that we do not trust you at all,” the man explained.

“Of course,” Napoleon replied. “However, could you at least give me your name?” 

The man bowed stiffly. “Raphael Montoya, at your service.” 

“Funny, you don’t sound much like a Mexican,” Solo questioned, trying to gather more information about the Thrush agent. 

“My parents were killed soon after my fourth birthday. Thrush adopted me, if you will. I do not sound Mexican because my education was worldwide.” The man had been making adjustments to the computer equipment while he talked, but now he came to stand in front of Solo. “I believe you have something for me?” 

Napoleon held out his hand, but kept his fist closed. “I ask one thing. Could you take care with the pendant? I would like to have the necklace back.” He didn’t have to offer any pretenses about that; he did want the pendant back. It meant a great deal to Illya, therefore it meant a great deal to him. 

“I will be as delicate as possible,” Montoya answered just as quietly. He held out his hand, and with reluctance, Napoleon dropped Illya’s necklace into it. 

Solo kept his eyes on the pendant the entire time, unwilling to lose sight of it for even an instant. Montoya used delicate jeweler’s tools to extract the microcircuit. He held it up to the light, examining it. 

“Is it a microcircuit?” Napoleon asked. 

“Yes, Mr. Solo, it is. What it contains remains to be seen.” Montoya busied himself with settings and numbers on the computer, readying it to receive the chip. 

Napoleon’s eyes never left the table and the piece of gold that lay on it. “Please?” He indicated the pendant. 

“Forgive me.” Montoya dropped the necklace back into Napoleon’s hand, which he carefully tucked into his pants pocket. 

“Thank you.” Napoleon watched the rest of the proceedings with casual disinterest. Montoya removed the front panel on one of the computers, and stuck his head inside. Napoleon presumed he was trying to figure out how to integrate it into the rest of the programs. He didn’t know what that chip contained; it could either be the formula for mass destruction or a trigger to destroy everything it was connected to. Napoleon wanted to be ready for anything. He bounced his feet lightly on the floor, testing his reflexes. The agent who had cuffed him was leaning against the wall, hardly covering Napoleon with his weapon. His attention was on Montoya. Napoleon’s was on the man with the gun. 

Montoya finished whatever he was doing and closed the panel. He shut the computers down and rebooted. The computers whirred back to life, beeping and wailing. Napoleon tensed. Montoya exclaimed and began hitting buttons. The whirring grew more intense, and the guard dropped the weapon to his side and took a step forward. Napoleon pounced, knocking the man against the wall. The gun clattered to the floor as Napoleon let his left hand go limp and punched the agent out with his right. He slumped to the floor and Solo searched the man quickly for the keys. 

“What have you done? What have you done?” Montoya shouted as alarm claxons sounded and a high-pitched whine started all around them. 

Napoleon uncuffed himself and grabbed the gun. “I hope I have destroyed whatever you were working on,” he replied coldly. “Tell me where Kuryakin’s body is, and I’ll tell you how to stop it.” 

Montoya was running back and forth from one computer panel to another, trying to stop the machine. “I can’t stop it!” 

“I’ll tell you how to stop it,” Napoleon shouted. “Tell me where Kuryakin’s body is!” 

“There is no body!” the man shrieked as he frantically typed on the keyboard. “There never was.” 

Time slowed for Napoleon Solo. No body? Then that meant…”He’s alive?”

“Yes, yes. He’s down in the lower level,” Montoya dismissed him. He ran over to Napoleon and grabbed his lapels. “Now tell me how to stop this!” 

Time sped up. Unless he missed his guess, the computers would overload any second, and he didn’t doubt take most of the building with them. He shoved the doctor away. “There is no way to stop it. I guess we both lied.” With that statement, Napoleon shot the man and began backing out the door. The corridor was beginning to fill with other Thrush agents, either coming to help contain the imminent explosion or to evacuate the building. He managed to avoid most of the agents as he made his way down the hall. He efficiently disposed of the few who stopped to question him. He ran down one hallway to another, finally coming across an elevator. He jabbed the button and waited for it to arrive. Thrush agents poured out of it carrying belongings and supplies. He shoved past them all and hit the lowest button. He only hoped it took him to Illya. He didn’t have much time to find his partner. 

He was almost at the bottom when an explosion rocked the building. The elevator car dropped a few feet, then swung to a stop. Napoleon pried open the doors and dropped down into a dark corridor. The hallways down here were mostly empty and quiet. He stared off in two different directions, trying to decide which way to go, when he heard a faint order: “Kill him. Kill the U.N.C.L.E. agent now…” Napoleon followed the sound off to his left and a dead run; he had no idea if anyone was still down there to carry out the order. He rounded a corner and fired at the first Thrush jumpsuit he spotted. He leapt over the fallen body and burst into the small room, the sight before him rocking him to his core. Illya was shackled face first to the wall, and a Thrush agent was about to shoot him. Napoleon didn’t even think; his finger squeezed the trigger automatically and the agent fell dead. 

A quick scan of the room showed no Thrush agents left alive. Napoleon took a shaky breath and stepped carefully over the fallen agent. He tucked his gun away and walked over to his partner, repressing a shudder. He’d been held captive before. He’d been tortured by Thrush before. But he’d never seen anything like this. Shutting down his unwanted emotions, he set to work planting small explosives on the bolts in the wall. One quick push of the button on his watch, and Illya’s body fell to the floor. 

A deafening crash directly across from their present position coincided with another explosion somewhere above them. He forced himself to kneel by Illya’s unconscious form and feel for a pulse. Weak, but still there. Part of his soul rejoiced while the rest of him tried to figure out a means of escape. He stripped off his jacket and draped it over Illya’s bloody body. He scooped the man up, staggered a bit, then headed back to the elevator. The shaft was caved in. He turned in a circle, searching for another way out. Thrush had to have a secret entrance somewhere. He followed the wall to his right until he came to oddly formed stones. He set Illya down and probed for the mechanism that would open the door. Pushing against one stone high above his head, the wall swung open. He leaned down to pick Illya up again, reconsidered, and hauled the man over his shoulder, leaving one hand free. He felt along the earthen walls, hoping there weren’t any booby traps. It was unlikely as this was undoubtedly one of their escape routes, but this was Thrush; he took no chances. Napoleon stumbled along until he spotted daylight. He shifted his fragile cargo and took stock of his surroundings. He was in a courtyard behind the main house. The upper floor on the left side was rubble. A helicopter lifted a large box from the right side of the house, then headed due east. The sounds of automobiles were fading into the distance. Napoleon listened for sirens of some kind, but there were none. The house must be far enough outside the city that unusual activities weren’t noted by the local officials. That also meant he was too far from the hospital. 

His head dropped to his chest and he closed his eyes. He hadn’t thought beyond escape, but now he had to deal with the very real problem of Illya’s wounds. His hands slipped down Illya’s blood-slicked legs as he lowered him to the ground. Thankfully, Illya had remained unconscious during their escape, but now Napoleon worried at the lack of response. His basic triage training kicked in, and he quickly removed his shirt and ripped it into strips. He bound Illya’s wrists efficiently, as they appeared to be the worst of his wounds. The crisp white was instantly darkened by red. He rolled Illya carefully to his side and bound a nasty looking wound on his thigh. What remained of the shirt he tied around Illya’s waist. He slipped his jacket on his partner to help fight off the cold, but as Illya was already warm, he was sure infection had already set in. 

He couldn’t take Illya to a regular hospital; not in his condition. There would be too many questions that he wasn’t qualified, or inclined, to answer. He glanced up at the house. There was the slim possibility that one of the phones was still active. He picked Illya up and carried him to the first floor, coughing at the dust still settling. He placed his partner on a relatively sturdy-looking couch. With shaky hands, Napoleon reached for the phone and held it to his ear. Relief poured through him at the sound of a dial tone. He thought a moment, then dialed a special number. “This is Napoleon Solo. Section One, Number Two, New York. I need a medical team.” If word had gotten around that he quit U.N.C.L.E., he would be denied flat out. 

“Please state password.” 

He took a breath, glanced at his watch and replied, “The desert is dry except in rainy season.” 

A minute stretched to a year, then the communications woman said, “Agent Solo. What do you have to report?” 

“I have a man down. He needs serious medical attention. I have no transportation. I’m not even sure where I am, other than near Mashhad.” 

“We’ll need more information than that to triangulate your position, Mr. Solo.”

He thought a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Did your seismic meter just pick up a blast in the vicinity of Mashhad? I caused a rather large building to implode.” 

“Checking.” She was silent for another minute. “We have your location. Five miles southeast of Mashhad. We will send a team immediately. ETA seven minutes.” 

“We’re on the first floor of the house. Enter through the front door.”

“Acknowledged.”

“And Miss? Thanks.” Napoleon hung up the phone before she could question him about that. 

A soft groan from the couch drew his attention. He knelt by Illya’s side, careful not to touch him. “Illya?” he whispered. 

Eyes fluttered, opened, then closed again without recognition. The ache that had been in his chest for nearly a month intensified at that blank stare. Napoleon swiveled and leaned back against the couch to wait for help to arrive. There was nothing else he could do but wait. 

~~~

Consciousness returned and Illya automatically scraped his fingertips on the stone, expecting the familiarity of the coldness. It didn’t feel right. He moved his cheek a fraction, and the feel was different as well. Softer. Drier. He tested his movements, finding them weak but unrestrained. He inhaled and the smell of antiseptic overwhelmed him. Squinting, he dared to open his eyes, hope a desperate thing. A choked sob of relief caught in this throat as his eyes focused on the machines and plain white walls. He was no longer in the cell. His eyes strayed downward to the I.V. in the back of his hand and the thick bandages around most of his forearm. His hands were bandaged as well, especially thick bandages over his fingertips. Oddly enough, not one part of him hurt. He must be heavily drugged to not feel any pain whatsoever. He raised his head slightly to peer around. Most definitely an U.N.C.L.E. infirmary. He recognized them all too well. He let his head drop back to the bed and giggled softly. Definitely drugged. His eyes were heavy and he closed them, then drifted to a painless sleep. 

~~

Illya jerked awake, senses on full alert. Wide-eyed, he took in his surroundings. White walls. Heart monitor. I.V. drip. His mind reported back ‘hospital’ and he relaxed. He was on his back this time, though it itched like crazy. Most of his skin itched, and he raised a hand to scratch it. He stared blankly at his bandaged hand, seeing instead the bloody stumps of his fingertips. He tried to claw the bandages off, but his other hand was bandaged as well. “No! No!” he yelled as he rubbed his hands together. 

A nurse banged open the door and rushed to his side. “Mr. Kuryakin! Mr. Kuryakin, calm down,” she exclaimed. 

“My hands!” he cried hysterically as he fought to get the coverings off. 

“What about them?” she asked. She grabbed his head lightly and looked him in the eye. “What is it?” she asked quietly. 

He calmed down at her tone. “My hands,” he shakily replied. “I want to see my hands.” 

“All right.” She gently pushed his hands back down to his lap, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you want to see the doctor?”

“Just my hands,” he murmured. He closed his eyes and fought a wave of panic as she unwrapped them. His hands were his best weapons; his livelihood. If they were damaged beyond repair…

She took the last bandage off and put his hands back in his lap. He took a shaky breath, then another, then looked down at his lap. His breath hitched in his chest. He had but one whole fingernail on his left hand; the pinky. His right had the last two. The others were chipped well below the norm, and his right forefinger had no nail at all. He didn’t know he had been muttering until the nurse forced his head up. 

She wiped at the wetness on his cheeks; he hadn’t realized he had been crying. “Mr. Kuryakin, it is all right. The doctors say they will grow back in a few weeks.” 

“Until then?” he choked out. He was caught in a coughing spasm and she poured him a cup of water. 

“Drink this slowly,” she instructed him. 

He hesitated just a fraction of a second, and then took a sip. He waited a good minute before taking another, making sure it hadn’t been poisoned. His hand faltered on its way back to his mouth. This wasn’t the prison. These were U.N.C.L.E. agents. They weren’t going to poison him. The fluttering in his stomach eased and he finished the water. “Hungry,” he announced as he handed her back the empty cup. 

“You are not allowed on solid foods yet. You are getting all your nutrients from here,” she pointed to a bag hanging above his head. 

He his eyes followed the drip from the bag down to his arm, where it disappeared beneath the bandage around his elbow. His eyes strayed back down to his hands. He turned them slowly, hardly recognizing them. The sutured abrasions on his palms itched, and he experimented at scratching them. He hissed and the nurse shook her head. 

“I would not advise trying that again, Mr. Kuryakin. You will not only infect the nail beds, but you might tear out the sutures as well.” She flushed guiltily. “I should not have let you see your hands. Let me rewrap them.” 

He held his tongue as she carefully did up each finger, then brought the bandages down to his still-covered wrists. “Do you know how long I was held captive?” he asked idly, though his heart was pounding. 

Her hands faltered. “About three weeks.” 

He filed the information for digestion later. “How bad is it?” he asked quietly. He kept his eyes focused on his lap, unable to deal with any pity she might show him. She surprised him by laying it on the line. 

“You were in ICU for nearly three weeks with a high fever brought on by infection. You were treated immediately for dehydration and malnutrition. We had to close a few deep cuts, but most had healed over in a horrible fashion. We had to reopen and clean those. The sore in your thigh…” her voice dropped, “Looked like an electrical burn. We did the best we could, but I am afraid that will scar badly. Your cheek,” he reached up to pat at the small bandage there, “was not broken, just scraped raw. There is an experimental procedure that could replace the damaged skin, but it will have to wait until there is a sufficiently healed section to take one from. It is possible this operation can be done for your thigh as well, but the important thing was that none of the musculature was affected. None of the scrapes on your chest and upper thighs needed stitches. You had a torn ligament in your left knee that required surgery to repair. You should regain full use of the leg.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The worst was your back. I do not need to tell you why.” 

His voice cracked as he replied, “No, you do not.” 

Her voice returned to normal volume. “Surgery went very well, though several organs were bruised internally. We will keep an eye on your left kidney; it looks in danger of failing. Two broken ribs on the right side; five on the left – all in your back. You were very lucky they did not puncture a lung. We brought you out of ICU last week. Do you want me to continue?” 

He’d been away from U.N.C.L.E. for seven weeks. Three spent in hell, four spent unconscious. He didn’t know which was worse. “No,” he whispered. “I don’t need to hear any more.” 

“I will leave you to rest then. That is the best thing right now. When you are feeling up to it, please ask for the stenographer. We will need to get your report.” She tucked the blanket around his wrapped chest and started toward the door. 

There was one thing he didn’t recall, though. He called after her, “How did I get here?”

She turned back to him. “You do not remember?”

He shook his head, wincing slightly at the dizziness. “No.”

“Napoleon Solo brought you in.” She left him with a bright smile. 

Illya lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Napoleon. The one thing he had not thought of since the first day of his capture. The one name he dared not even repeat in his mind, for fear of screaming it during one of his torture sessions. The man he both loved and hated. 

He attempted to roll to his side but a jolt of pain halted his movements. He carefully settled onto his back and closed his eyes in defeat. Napoleon. The name conjured up memories; some of them painful. Some of them wonderful. None from the last seven weeks or so. His breath caught in his chest again, and he fought down a wave of nausea. For three weeks, he had been in that hell hole. For three weeks, Napoleon had let him be tortured to the brink of his endurance. 

For three weeks, Napoleon Solo had abandoned him. 

He lifted a shaky hand and wiped his wet face with his bandages. Why hadn’t Napoleon come for him sooner? Did he not get the pendant? Had he been captured as well? His heart skipped a beat at that thought, then he shook the image away. If Thrush had Napoleon, they would have told him. It would have been something else to torment him with. So what had kept him for three weeks? Only one man could answer that. He reached up and pressed the call button. 

“I would like to see Agent Napoleon Solo.” He closed his eyes, wanting to give himself as much time as possible to adjust to seeing his lover again…before he threw him out of his life. 

It was several long minutes before he heard the door creak open. The person stopped, and it was another few minutes before soft footfalls crossed the room to the bed. The uneven breathing could have been his own or the man who entered. The footsteps grew closer, and Illya felt the air shift around his body. He sensed Napoleon’s hand reaching out to him and flatly stated, “Don’t touch me.” The hand was instantly withdrawn. His eyes flashed open and he saw Napoleon for the first time in over two months. 

Dark circles under his normally bright eyes. A rumpled shirt highlighted a shadowed jaw…and not a mark on him. His eyes slid away from the sight of Napoleon, his gut twisting at the anger he felt. 

“Illya…” Napoleon started to whisper, but Illya cut him off sharply. 

“I want to know where you were,” he asked, his voice calmer than he felt.

The normally unflappable Napoleon fumbled, “I…you have to understand…”

Illya swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. The calmness was cracking in his voice, but the tone remained quietly lethal. “I understand that I was abandoned by U.N.C.L.E. Who gave the order?”

The older man shook his head. “You weren’t…”

“Who gave the order?” he demanded sharply as he tried to lock onto Napoleon’s eyes, but his partner dropped his gaze to the floor.

Napoleon muttered, “Waverly.” 

His lip curled in disgust. “And you went along with him.” 

Napoleon’s eyes came up at that and he hissed, “We thought you were dead!”

“I almost was,” Illya snapped; his control growing weak. “They tell me you rescued me three weeks after contact was broken.” 

Napoleon’s face paled at that. His voice was raspy as he recalled, “Reports came in that you had been killed. We sent a man out, and he confirmed…” 

Illya turned icy eyes up to the man he once called friend. “Where were you?” he accused. 

Napoleon replied faintly, “I was at Headquarters checking and rechecking the reports. Waverly didn’t want…” 

Illya wouldn’t let him finish; all the rage, all the pain and suffering of those twenty-one days came pouring out of the broken dam. “They sent a man. Why not you? You were my liaison. You were my backup if things went wrong.” He couldn’t stop his voice from rising. “They went wrong, Napoleon! Where were you? Where were you!” he accused as he tried to reach for Napoleon. He almost fell off the bed in his anger; unable to grab onto the sheets with his hands. 

Napoleon’s arms caught him and Illya violently shoved him away. “You lost the right to touch me when you left me to die,” he snarled coldly. 

Napoleon jerked back as if he’d been punched. He staggered across the room, finally coming to a stop against the wall. “Illya…”

“Don’t ever say my name again,” he snapped harshly. 

Napoleon looked barely able to stand under his own power. He started to speak, his voice shaking with emotion. “Listen to me, please! There was an explosion at the café. Your jacket, wallet, communicator, gun and watch were all there. Blown to bits. Nothing left but rubble. Two witnesses placed you in the café moments before the blast. There was nothing left,” he repeated softly. “Nothing.” 

Illya’s eyes locked on Napoleon’s. He saw beyond his anger to the fear residing in those bloodshot brown eyes. Fear he had been left alone. Fear that his partner had died. That kindred feeling Illya had long ago when he had first been paired with Napoleon fought to the surface, reminding him that each had found something they were missing in the other person. The intense rage faded to a horrible feeling of guilt. “They made it look like I died,” he murmured. 

Napoleon didn’t seem to have heard him. He kept talking in a quiet, haunted voice, one that sent shivers down Illya’s back. “There was nothing. Two o’clock, then two-thirty, and then three. No transmission signal reported. No homing beacon received. All systems tested from New York to Tehran to Mashhad confirmed equipment was in perfect working condition. Local agents questioned and searched for four days for any other clues. Nothing. Waverly was ready to send another agent to take your place, but I insisted on being sent to find y—your body. He refused. He didn’t want to lose me, too. He sent someone else and he came up with nothing. Two weeks had gone by and the memorial was finally held. I refused to go. I refused to let you go. I hounded Waverly day in and day out until he finally gave me an ultimatum. I have had nothing, Illya. Nothing since the day you disappeared.” 

Napoleon had slid down the wall while he recited the last few weeks from his point of view, and now Illya could do nothing but watch helplessly as Napoleon’s head dropped to his knees and his shoulders shook with silent tears. 

Illya had been physically and mentally tortured, it was true, but he wasn’t the only one who had suffered in his absence. Napoleon was hardly one for emotional scenes; neither was he. This…this was gut-wrenching to watch. “Napoleon,” he choked out. “Napoleon, please. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” His vision blurred with tears as he murmured, “Napasha.” He stretched out his arm in Napoleon’s direction, and after a minute, felt Napoleon’s hand on his. The hand slid up his arm to his shoulder, then behind his head. His arms came up around Napoleon and he pulled the older man down to him. 

“Forgive me,” he whispered just as Napoleon murmured, “I’m sorry. So sorry.” He tightened his grip on Napoleon, burrowing his head into the familiar neck. He struggled to rein in his wayward emotions. He knew they were a side effect to the trauma he suffered, but still he refused to give in. He took a deep breath and gasped at the pain shooting through his chest. 

Napoleon instantly backed away. “Illya, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

He pressed lightly on his chest until the painful spasm ended. When he could speak again, he smiled weakly. “I know you didn’t, Napoleon. It’s all right.” He winced and shifted to a more comfortable position. “My body is healing.” 

“But your mind isn’t,” Napoleon voiced his worry.

Was it? The nightmares hadn’t started yet, but he knew they eventually would. Physical torture was painful, but it was just the body. Psychological torture was the hardest to deal with, and he had been through hell and back this time. A slight shiver went through him as his mind forced memories away. But they were near the surface; he would have to deal with them soon. Illya reached out his hand again, and the older man held it loosely. “It is now.” Napoleon smiled, but Illya could still see worry in his eyes. “I know I have a lot ahead of me, Napoleon.” 

Napoleon’s other hand hesitated, then reached out to gently touch the bandaged cheek. “I should have been there. I should have insisted on going sooner.” 

Illya shot him the sternest look he could muster. “Don’t second guess things. It solves nothing.” 

They were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Napoleon’s hands automatically slipped from Illya’s person, and when the nurse came fully into the room, there was just one agent concerned about another standing there. 

“Mr. Solo. Your time is up,” she reported crisply. 

“Five minutes. Please,” Napoleon whispered without looking away from Illya. 

When the nurse didn’t appear to want to leave, Illya leveled his gaze at her. “Leave,” he growled in a fair approximation of his old self. 

The nurse raised an eyebrow but turned and left with a curt, “Five minutes,” tossed at them. 

A smile that was closer to the old Napoleon charmer flashed across his lover’s face. “I have something for you.” 

Illya’s curiosity was piqued as Napoleon reached into his jacket and placed something that glittered into his hand. He smiled sadly. “I broke the clasp in my haste.”

Napoleon shoved his hands into his pants pockets and his smile faded just a bit. “I fixed it.” 

He looked up hopefully. “Put it on for me?” He ducked his head and Napoleon’s nimble fingers made short work of setting the pendant back where it belonged. The familiar feel of its weight centered him instantly, and Illya felt a bit more himself again. He touched it absently. “Did you find the microfilm?” 

Napoleon tilted his head. “Microfilm? The only thing I found was a microcircuit. I had to trade it to find your location. It caused the explosion that allowed us to escape.” 

Illya let out a small breath of thanks. Napoleon had found the right thing. He had personally overseen the making of that prototype chip. The smallest in the world, with a computer virus that self-destructed. It had been the only one of its kind in the world, and it had done its job. “I made that chip. It was designed to implement a computer meltdown. The microfilm was behind the first false panel in the pendant. It contains the breakdown of the virus that Dr. Hoang created. If you didn’t find it, then it should still be there.” He paused as his chest began to hurt. He breathed quietly for a minute, then asked Napoleon to get the stenographer. 

Illya could see the stenographer glare at Napoleon as she set up her equipment, but he immediately cut her off. “He stays.” Ignoring her ‘humph,’ he began to give the rundown of his mission. 

“I met with Dr. Hoang in the market. He gave me the bare details of what he was working on to see if I was interested. It sounded like legitimate research from what I could understand of it, so I agreed to the exchange. I went to the local U.N.C.L.E. office to collect the one and a half million dollars’ worth of jewels for payment when Dr. Hoang bumped into me.” 

“Wait,” Napoleon interrupted him. “You were to meet him at the café for the exchange.”

Illya nodded. “Dr. Hoang claimed that someone was following him, and he didn’t trust the research falling into enemy hands. He gave me the microfilm and instructions to meet him at the café as planned. I headed back to the hotel but noticed I was being followed. I darted into a small alcove and worked quickly to place the microfilm in the second false panel of the pendant. I returned to the hotel, hoping I had lost the Thrush agents, but I didn’t. I ripped the necklace off, placed it in an envelope and gave the man behind the desk one hundred American dollars to give it to Solo only. Then I went to the café. I arrived about fifteen minutes early.” 

He broke off to catch his breath and Napoleon asked, “When did the doctor arrive?” 

Illya shook his head. “I don’t know. The last thing I remember is sitting down under the canopy. Then everything went black until I woke up…” He shuddered as the memories grew stronger. He wouldn’t think of that now. He ordered his mind still until he finished his report. Falling apart while giving a mission summary was considered poor form. 

He cleared his throat and repeated what he had told Napoleon. “There was a microcircuit that I helped to create in the pendant I wore; it was made to issue a self-destruct order to any computer that it interfaced with. The microfilm was in a false panel behind it. It should still be there.” Illya contained his slight feeling of apprehension and held up his hands. “I cannot retrieve it myself, but Napoleon…”

Napoleon coughed discreetly. Illya shot him an annoyed look and continued, “Could open it with my guidance. The microfilm contains the work of Dr. Hoang. I didn’t have time to investigate his theories, but we should be able to continue his experiments and see if he did, indeed, create the virus.” 

The stenographer finished up and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin. We’ll take the pendant down to the lab and have it back to you in no time.” 

Illya glanced curiously up at Napoleon, who was studying the floor. “Why can’t Agent Solo take it down?” 

“Because Mr. Solo…”

“Will be too busy giving his own report,” Napoleon cut in. “I’ll follow you out,” he said to the woman agent, and after a final glare, she turned and left.

Illya stared at the closed door, then at his lover. “What was that about?” 

“Nothing. You rest up. I have to give my report.” Napoleon wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

“But it’s been…” he tried to protest, but Napoleon interrupted him. 

“Illya. You need rest. I don’t want to have to come back here and kick your butt.” With that, Napoleon walked out the door, leaving Illya to wonder what happened with his lover during the past seven weeks.


	3. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya hated being too weak to move about. He could barely sit up for more than an hour at a time, and then he usually napped for an hour or two. The doctors said he needed rest, which he secretly agreed with, but rest wasn’t getting him answers. It had been two days, and Napoleon hadn’t been back in. “I want to see him,” Illya insisted to the fourth nurse to check on him. 
> 
> “I’m sorry. Mr. Solo is unavailable,” came the reply.

“Mr. Solo,” the stenographer whirled on him as soon as he shut Illya’s door. 

“Please,” Napoleon held up his hand to quiet her. “I don’t think it would be beneficial to Mr. Kuryakin to know of my resignation. He has a long road of recovery ahead of him, and this could hinder him.”

“By learning of your termination? I hardly think so,” she scoffed lightly. 

Napoleon stepped closer to glare down at the woman. “That man is—was my partner for years. And he is still an agent in this organization. You will give him the courtesy of letting me tell the sordid tale in my own time.” 

“Mister Solo,” she emphasized as she backed up a step. He followed with two, his glare now accompanied by a menacing scowl. “Agent Kuryakin has given his report. By your own promise, it is time for you to leave. And if I, or any other agent in this organization wish to tell him of your resignation, it is our business to do so!” 

Flushed and blinded by anger, he grabbed her arm and hissed, “No one will say anything of this to him, or they will have to answer to me. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Is that a threat?” she laughed lightly, but there was a hint of fear in her eyes. 

“Another promise I intend to keep,” he growled. He shoved her away and strode purposefully out of U.N.C.L.E., sickened by his own actions. 

~~~

Illya heard the raised voices outside his door, but was too weak to attempt to get up to listen. He recognized Napoleon’s voice, and one he thought belonged to the stenographer. The voices lowered, then abruptly stopped. He strained to hear anything further, but the hallway was quiet. 

What had happened? Why did Napoleon say he had to give his report now? He had more than enough time in the past few weeks. Illya tried to wrap his mind around the missing ingredients, but he was getting tired. He sank further into the bed and drifted to sleep, resolved to question Napoleon the next time he was in. 

~~~

Had he been reduced to this? What had he become? Waiting for news of his lover, unable to visit for weeks, then to have that…that…

Napoleon took a deep breath to center himself. He shouldn’t have done that. He had already endeared himself to the switchboard operator at U.N.C.L.E., calling every day to ask how Illya was. If there was a change. If he had woken up. If Illya had asked for him. Anything, but receiving no answers for four weeks. Twenty-eight of the longest days of his life. 

He had impatiently waited for U.N.C.L.E. to arrive at the destroyed Thrush satrap, his back to Illya. He couldn’t look at him. If he saw him, it would be real. And he didn’t want it to be real. His mind would never be able to erase the image of his unconscious lover, naked and bloody. As much as his heart rejoiced that Illya was alive, it twisted at the thought of what had been done to him in the weeks he’d been missing. 

Napoleon had his answer now: tortured within an inch of his life. Psychologically battered to break his spirit. Judging by the little things he’d noticed, Illya had come close to breaking, but he held on. Napoleon would have said by his fingernails, but that was too literal. In his exile from U.N.C.L.E., he had replayed every detail he could about Illya’s condition when he found him, to assess how badly he was hurt. Chained to the wall face-first, he had undoubtedly tried to ball his hands into fists against the pain. His hands had been shackled close to the wall, only allowing limited movement. Just enough to continually scrape the tips of his fingers along the stone. By the bandages on his hands, he guessed Illya had a few nails to grow back. 

Back…he couldn’t think about his mangled flesh that had once been a lightly-scarred back. Filth had covered most of it, but he could feel the marks as he carried Illya to safety. The strange wound on his thigh had worried Napoleon as he had seen nothing like it before. It had been seeping with infection when Napoleon had discovered it; he assumed it had been treatable as Illya had both his legs moments ago. Illya’s wrists and hands were two bloody stumps when he had first seen them; it looked like they were well on their way to healing. The bandage on Illya’s cheek caused him to flinch; face rubbed raw by the stones, no doubt. His voice had been different, too. Probably from screaming. 

Napoleon licked his dry lips. He needed a stiff drink. He thought of the watering hole across from U.N.C.L.E. here in Mashhad and his stomach churned. The liquid was oily and it stank, but it was good for letting you forget. He didn’t even have to speak when he went in anymore; just sat down and the waitress brought over a bottle. 

His hand closed around the neck and he drank straight from the cloudy bottle. Twenty minutes hadn’t been enough. He’d waited for three weeks to find out if his partner was still alive, then another month to find out if he survived. He wanted more time with him. Damn it, he should be in there with Illya! He banged the bottle on the dusty tabletop. 

~~~

Illya hated being too weak to move about. He could barely sit up for more than an hour at a time, and then he usually napped for an hour or two. The doctors said he needed rest, which he secretly agreed with, but rest wasn’t getting him answers. It had been two days, and Napoleon hadn’t been back in. “I want to see him,” Illya insisted to the fourth nurse to check on him. 

“I’m sorry. Mr. Solo is unavailable,” came the reply. 

Every time he asked, he got the same answer. It was getting damn annoying. “Has he been sent on assignment?” he tried probing. 

The pretty redhead patted his arm and smiled. “You know we aren’t allowed to answer that.” 

He jerked his arm out from under her hand. “What are you allowed to answer, then?” he snarled. 

She glared at him. “Mr. Kuryakin. If you do not desist immediately, I will have the doctor prescribe a sedative.” 

“Go ahead and do it,” he dared her. “Being awake has given me no answers.” Biting back a cry of pain, he turned his back to her. He remained in that position until her footsteps faded to the door. She hesitated there, then the door opened and silence remained. 

He chewed on the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming as he settled carefully onto his back. That was a stupid move. He could feel the barely-healed skin pull, but thankfully, he didn’t feel any tearing or blood. He breathed shallowly until the worst of the pain was past. 

He had to see Napoleon. He had to know what was going on. He decided it was time that the head of Section Two earned his title. The next time a nurse came around to check on him, he would be ready.

“How are we today, Mr. Kuryakin?” the brunette nurse asked as she breezed into his room hours later.

He continued staring at the far wall, not giving any indication he had heard her. 

“Mr. Kuryakin?” she called quietly and touched his shoulder. 

He flinched and his eyes searched her face. “Oh.” He sighed and turned his head to the wall again. 

“Is there anything wrong?” she asked as she timed his pulse. 

“No,” he murmured. She released his arm and he let it fall back to the bed with a soft whump. He shifted his gaze to his hand, slowly turning it. 

“Are you in any pain? Would you like the doctor?” the nurse asked worriedly. 

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t need the doctor.” 

“All right then. I’ll leave you to rest. The night nurse will be in to check on you later.” 

He sighed and closed his eyes, listening for her to leave. He pulled the same act seven more times over the next two days before one of the nurses caught on. 

“You know,” the redhead stated, “You have the entire infirmary staff in a tizzy. They’re all concerned about your well-being.” 

His insides warmed. Now maybe he would get some answers. 

“Unfortunately,” she continued, “This act isn’t working on me. And no one can give you any information on Mr. Solo.” 

He scowled. “What is it with everyone? Why can’t I find out about my own partner?” He suddenly gasped and laid his hand on her arm. “He hasn’t been sent to complete my assignment, has he?” 

She shrugged lightly. “I wouldn’t know. No one knows what your assignment was.” 

He was getting through to her; he could sense it. He knew his assignment had been completed; he had the microfilm. However, the nurses didn’t know that. He cast beseeching eyes up to her. “Please, can you at least tell me when he left? Did he say anything at all?” 

She looked uncomfortable and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He left a few days ago.” 

His brow wrinkled in concentration. Days were just as hard to calculate in the hospital as they had been when he was held captive. “The day he saw me last?” he guessed.

She nodded and backed up a step. “I should go…” 

“Please!” he whispered hoarsely. “Please. I need to know if he’s all right. That’s all I ask.” 

She relented. “I’ll see what I can find out. But you better keep up the act. I won’t be held responsible for this,” she warned him. 

“Thank you,” he breathed. He clumsily took her hand and brought it to his lips. At that, she flushed darkly and scurried out of the room. 

He felt uneasy at his performance. He wasn’t normally the manipulative bastard type, using his ‘brooding good looks’, as Napoleon liked to call them, to get information. It was his partner’s job to seduce the ladies; his to extract the information from them. He tried to tell himself that his unease came from his manipulation of a fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent, but he knew better. He was worried about Napoleon. 

“If you’re not here in U.N.C.L.E., then where are you?” he asked the walls. 

~~~

Napoleon stuck his hand in his hair and rubbed at the throbbing ache just behind his eyelids. His face hurt; his teeth hurt; even his damn skin hurt. He shook his head out of the tangle of sheets engulfing his body and groaned as the rays of the mid-day sun rammed through his eyelids into his skull. The shattering of the phone deafened him, and he flung out an arm to stop the offending noise. He ended up knocking the phone to the floor with an echoing crash, which caused him to cry out in pain. He fumbled for the receiver, held it away from his ear, and whispered, “What?” very softly. 

“Mr. Solo?” a crisp voice queried. 

He winced despite the barrier of air between himself and the voice. “Yes,” he rasped.

“An agent will be by in a half hour with a communicator.” 

He was instantly sober. “What’s happened?”

“You will receive instructions when the agent arrives. Out.” 

With a sick feeling of dread, he absently replaced the receiver. There was only one reason for U.N.C.L.E. to contact him now: Illya. Something must have happened to Illya. A change in his condition, maybe. His whirling mind slowed enough for him to realize that they wouldn’t be sending an agent over with a communicator if Illya were incapacitated in some way. It was more likely his partner had driven them all mad with his brooding. He smiled at that. He missed Illya’s brooding. His glance fell to his watch. Less than a half hour to look presentable. 

He struggled to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom to wash up. He stared in horror at his reflection in the mirror. He hadn’t really looked at himself lately, and now it was too late to do anything about it. Dark circles framed his eyes. His skin was a sickly gray, and stubble lined his cheeks. His clothes were wrinkled and stained with whatever horrors he had come across downstairs at the tavern. He turned the shower on full blast and scrubbed himself clean. He shaved as quickly as he dared. There was nothing he could do about the length of his hair, but he combed it neatly and slicked it down. He found his cleanest trousers and a light blue short-sleeved shirt. Not his normal style, but in the heat, he should be able to get away with it. At the last minute, he grabbed a sports jacket and slipped it on. The more normal he appeared, the more normal he felt. And he needed to feel as normal as possible if a trained agent was on their way. A knock on the door signaled the agent’s arrival. 

He smoothed his jacket and walked across the room. “Please,” he bowed slightly to the female agent, indicating she should enter. She did so and handed him a communicator. 

“You are on assignment; you cannot say where. All you are permitted to communicate is that you are all right. Your cover is that you are out of the country and cannot come in to see him. Are there any questions?” 

He shook his head and stared at the device as it chirruped. He glanced to her, and she stated, “Agent Kuryakin was told you would contact him at nine a.m.” 

He nodded and held the pen-like device to his lips. “Illya?” he whispered thickly. 

“Napoleon!” The voice was definitely his partner’s, laced with anxiety and relief. “Can you talk?” Illya asked in a subdued voice. 

“For a moment,” Napoleon hedged. “Is everything all right?”

There was silence, then, “Yes. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget that five dollars you owe me.” 

Napoleon smiled, but didn’t forget the watchful eyes in his room. “I never forget old debts.” The agent tapped her watch, and he cleared his throat. “I have a meeting scheduled in a few minutes. I’ll contact you again when I can.” That earned him a glare, but he didn’t care. If they wouldn’t let him see Illya, they _would_ let him talk to him. 

“There’s no need, Napoleon.” He could sense the smile in his partner’s voice. “But I appreciate the offer. Out.” 

Napoleon twisted the pen closed and handed it back to the agent.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Mr. Solo,” she scolded him. 

He stalked over to her and barely restrained himself from grabbing her arm. “Regardless of what you think of my resignation, I was Section I, Number Two. You will treat me with respect and give me the courtesies you would any visitor of U.N.C.L.E., or I will take it up with your supervisor. Have I made myself clear?” 

“Yes, sir,” she replied softly, though he didn’t think she was completely convinced. It didn’t matter now, anyway. He had laid the groundwork for further contact with Illya; that was the important thing. 

~~~

Illya grumbled under his breath for what felt like the twentieth time. Three weeks of complaints and grousing and the doctors finally signed him out. The nurses were ready to see him go; his ‘brooding good looks’ had worn thin, and the smiles and small favors had lessened as the days wore on. He had been released that morning from the infirmary at Mashhad with provisions. He could return to New York, but he had to have an escort in case of trouble. 

Now he was sitting at the airport, Agent David Haskell playing nursemaid to him.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” the perky man asked again.

“I am fine,” Illya replied through clenched teeth. “What time is it?” he asked again. 

Haskell glanced at his watch. “Five minutes since the last time you asked. Our flight should be called soon.” 

As if on cue, the announcement came over the loudspeaker. Illya gritted his teeth and allowed Haskell to push the wheelchair down the ramp. His injured status allowed him to board the plane first, and he sank into his assigned seat with a barely-contained sigh. He already knew his body would protest the extremely long flight, and with his shadow there, he couldn’t break the doctor’s rule of ‘no alcohol’. However, if he could remain awake when Haskell fell asleep, maybe he could sneak a shot of vodka or two. 

He closed his eyes as the rest of the passengers boarded the plane, and soon he was asleep. 

~~~

His disguise was complete; no one could have recognized him, least of all the agent assigned to Illya. Napoleon glanced at the sleeping form of his partner as he made his way to the back of the plane. Illya looked better; his color was better and the deep bruises under his eyes had faded to a light dusting. His hands were still heavily bandaged, however, and that worried him. His lover’s hands were one of his greatest assets to U.N.C.L.E.

It had been no small feat to find out the day and flight of Illya’s return to the United States. Years of field work mixed with the best of U.N.C.L.E.’s training had served him well. It had taken little effort to secure a seat aboard the same plane. The disguise was the hardest of all. Agents were trained to notice anyone suspicious or out of character. He tried to blend in with the rest of the tourists, opting for the tried and true “hidden right under your nose” route. So far, it was working like a charm. 

Napoleon forced himself to remain in his seat through most of the flight. When Illya’s shadow got up to go to the bathroom, he got up as well. On only slightly shaky legs, he approached Illya. 

His partner looked asleep. He was about to turn back when Illya whispered, “You look better clean-shaven.” 

Startled, Napoleon sat down in the seat next to his partner. “How did you know it was me?” 

A smile lit up Illya’s face as he turned to face him. “Your feet thump like an ox.” 

An answering smile curved Napoleon’s mouth. “I’ve missed you, too.” He pulled a small bottle from his pocket. “I brought you something.” 

Illya’s eyebrow shot up and he whispered, “Vodka?” 

“Of course.” Napoleon unscrewed the bottle and put it to Illya’s lips, who drank greedily. 

He coughed a bit, and then licked his lips. “Thank you.” His eyes glanced to the front of the plane, near the bathrooms. “You better go. Haskell will be back soon.” 

Napoleon recapped the bottle. “I know. I—I just had to see you.” 

There was warmth in Illya’s eyes even as he said, “Hurry, Napasha.” 

He squeezed Illya’s arm affectionately, then quickly returned to his seat. He kept his eyes on Illya’s seat after Haskell returned, the in-flight movie went off, and most of the passengers had fallen asleep. When everything was quiet, Napoleon got up and walked to the bathroom. On the way back, he slowed by the row Illya sat in. 

Illya’s head had lolled to rest against the window hours ago, and now he could see the steady rise and fall of his chest in the muted lighting of the plane. It had been almost three months since their last night together, and the familiar ache was back. Not the urgency of sex; that wasn’t foremost in his mind. No, what he needed was to reconnect with his partner. To hold that much-abused body and relearn it. His breath hitched in his throat as he thought of the new scars he would discover. 

He blinked and found himself caught by knowing blue eyes. “Soon,” Illya whispered softly. 

“Soon,” he agreed, not surprised that Illya had known what he was thinking. They always seemed to have that ability. He flashed a smile and returned to his seat, his body finally allowing him sleep.


	4. Recovery

Pain brought Illya to consciousness. He opened his eyes and was unable to stifle a groan. His muscles had cramped from the space between his shoulder blades all the way down his body. Sleeping at an odd angle against the window had twisted his body unnaturally. Even though he had stretched out his legs as much as possible, he still had to bend his knees to fit in the seat. Until now, he had been able to ignore the dull pain in his knee. Now his body screamed in protest as he tried to move. Breathing shallowly to try to curb the pain, he reached up and punched the stewardess’ button. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the urge to grab the armrests. 

“Sir? Sir, what can I do for you?” an urgent voice whispered. 

He didn’t open his eyes. “Water,” he rasped. He remained in that position until he felt Haskell place the painkiller in his hand and handed him a glass. 

“Careful,” Haskell warned. 

Illya downed the pill dry. He shuddered and waited for the pain to recede. When it was tolerable again, he cracked his eyes open. ‘Thanks,” he whispered. He took the offered glass and sipped at the water. His eyes flicked to the stewardess, and he smiled gratefully at her. “And thank you, miss.” 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked as her concerned eyes traversed his body. “We were notified that you had been in a serious accident and needed special care.” 

His smile widened. It was a line that Napoleon wouldn’t have resisted. “Seeing your concern has been most…beneficial to speeding my recovery,” he assured her. 

She blushed and returned his smile. 

~~~

Illya watched the approaching New York skyline with some trepidation. He had plenty of time to think while lying in the infirmary in Mashhad, and even more time on the flight back home. Things didn't add up. 

Unfortunately, it was Napoleon's actions that didn't add up. First the slip about giving his report weeks after Illya had been brought to the hospital. Not possible. Then there were the raised voices outside his room. A fight? Over what? Possibly visitors, as Napoleon hadn't been back to see him at all in the infirmary. Then his partner had been sent on assignment and U.N.C.L.E. had arranged for Napoleon to contact him. Granted, it was in the field operative's best interest to signal Headquarters when necessary, but just to appease him? It was highly irregular. 

Then there was the final thing; Napoleon ending up on this flight in disguise. The odds were astronomical that Napoleon's assignment would place him on this exact flight going to New York. Napoleon made sure to stay out of Haskell's line of sight, indicating that he wanted to remain anonymous. Why? Was his cover that deep, or was there more going on? 

He tried to recall more details from the infirmary, but his memory was hazy due to the injuries and medication. He could have sworn he heard Napoleon mention something about an ultimatum, but could not place the context. 

Illya sighed as the plane touched down. He had to endure at least one more trip in the wheelchair, and then hopefully the doctor in New York would give him crutches. He’d bullied Charlie before, and he was fairly certain he could coerce the doctor again. Though he wouldn’t admit it --even under torture -- he had been grateful for the chair when he tried to take his first step from his bed. His knee had given out immediately and he couldn't find purchase with his hands. The swift actions of the doctor had kept him from hitting the floor. He was going to be laid up for at least several more weeks, and already his mind was shying away from the idea. He could always spend his time at U.N.C.L.E. HQ, though he would miss the weeks away from the field. 

At least the wheelchair was only a necessity through the airport. After his first failed attempt to get out of bed, he had been walking for an hour each day, getting the strength back in his legs. The doctors had muttered about 'Russian stubbornness' as he pushed himself, but in his line of work, weakness could get him killed. And without his partner to watch his back, he felt uncharacteristically vulnerable. Haskell was competent enough, but it was who he wasn't that Illya was concerned about. He wasn't Napoleon. 

Speak of the devil. Illya glanced to the back of the plane and caught sight of his partner anxiously watching him. He smiled briefly as he turned to slide into the wheelchair. He inhaled sharply as he leaned back in the chair. His leg and his back were the two worst places on his body. The rest of his injuries were tolerable, but those two would bother him for a long time, he predicted. At least he had limited freedom of his hands. The thickest bandages had been removed, and now only the tips of some of his fingers were covered against infection. There was still heavy gauze around his wrists, which limited his movement. And, as he discovered, it hurt to flex his wrists. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he settled himself carefully into the wheelchair. Haskell whisked him through customs, and soon they were in the waiting car U.N.C.L.E. sent and on their way to Headquarters. 

Apprehension curled in Illya’s stomach as the car neared Headquarters. To his surprise, the driver turned behind the building, toward Waverly’s private entrance. At Illya's questioning look, Haskell revealed, "The old man knew you wouldn't want a lot of fanfare. He told everyone you were coming back tomorrow." 

"That will help a little," he mused quietly. Avoiding the more commonly used Del Floria’s entrance offered him little protection. As soon as one agent saw him in the building, the news would spread like wildfire. Getting in shouldn't been a problem, but getting back out might require a bit more finesse. 

They passed two agents who Illya knew by reputation only, and then three others who stopped in their tracks, did a double-take, then continued on their way. Illya estimated that within the half hour, all of U.N.C.L.E. New York would know of his return. None too soon, the doors to the Infirmary snicked shut behind him with a sigh. While he might not like the Infirmary, at least it was a place he was familiar with. 

"Illya! I never thought I'd see your uptight ass again." Dr. Charles Mallory was an old acquaintance, if not a friend. Illya had spent as much time with him as he did Napoleon. The smiling green eyes and shock of red hair marked Charlie as an Irishman, though his accent was an odd mix of Irish lilt and New York twang. Charlie smiled brightly as he shooed the nurses out of the room. 

Illya fought to keep a smile from his face. "They haven't taken your license yet, Charlie?" 

"I never had one to begin with," the doctor winked as he rifled through the papers his desk. 

Haskell shook his head. "I'm not getting in the middle of this one. I’ll see you later.” 

Illya nodded his thanks, and then he was left alone with the doctor. "Did you get the medical reports from Iran?" he asked. 

Charlie stopped searching for whatever it was he was looking for and sobered. "You realize how incredibly lucky you are." 

Illya narrowed his eyes at the doctor. His voice was uncharacteristically low and concerned. Unusual and unfounded as Illya was alive and mending. He stated the obvious. "Thrush hasn't killed me yet." 

"They almost did, this time." Charlie picked up a thick manila folder – no doubt Illya’s medical record – and handed it to him. 

On top was his medical report from the U.N.C.L.E. office in Tehran. As Illya scanned the lists of injuries and medications, his stomach recoiled in horror. No wonder he had been heavily sedated for a full two weeks upon admission. He kept his eyes on the paper. He tried to hide his anxiety, though he was afraid a small rasp belied him. "I thought I wasn't supposed to see this?" 

Charlie shrugged. "You're not. But it’s just as easy for you to read than it is for me to explain."

Anger coursed through him. "Why did I have to read this?" He tossed the offending file toward the head of the examination table. 

The doctor pinned him with his gaze. "You haven't talked about this yet, have you?"

"And I’m not about to," Illya replied coldly. "I know what is to come, Charlie. I'm ready for it." 

"As ready as anyone can be for a breakdown? You know better than that," he was chastised. 

"I'm still on medical leave, so what difference does it make?” Illya rationalized. “I won't be back in the field for at least another three months." 

Charlie crossed his arms across his chest. "That's being incredibly generous. I'd say about six." 

"Six months!” he protested. “It wasn't that..."

The doctor picked up the file and shook it at him. "Yes, it was that bad. Or did you honestly think that broken bones and missing skin heal overnight?" He tossed the file back onto the exam table. 

"It's already been close to three months. I know my own body; in another two months, I'll be fine,” Illya lied through his teeth. His body had betrayed him these past few weeks. He could walk, but not without pain. He couldn’t sit up for long periods of time, and he found himself sleeping on his stomach rather than aggravate his back. The doctors in Tehran warned him that would happen. 

Charlie’s words reached him through his thoughts. "I won't release you for duty." 

He narrowed his eyes. "You've released me before when I wasn’t at 100%." 

"This time it's different.” Charlie knelt by his wheelchair and spoke to him softly. “Illya, you read the report. You died on the operating table from complications; internal bleeding and hemorrhaging in your brain. This is serious. You had the luck of the Irish with you." 

A large, heavy lump settled at the bottom of his stomach. "I hardly think so," Illya replied, letting Charlie think he was referring to his heritage. Luck had little to do with it. It was sheer willpower that kept him going. 

Charlie grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. Hope I didn't offend your Russian ancestry." 

"We're a sturdy lot," Illya replied, distracted by his own thoughts. He ruthlessly shoved down his unwanted emotions. Unwilling to let any weakness show, he raised his hands and asked, "Did you want to examine me? I don't know what it is that makes you doctors want to poke and prod me." 

"It's your sparkling personality," Charlie retorted dryly. His manner and tone sobered, and Illya’s senses went on alert. "Actually, I do want to run a few tests. Thrush had you for three weeks; we have to make sure there's no adverse programming in you." 

Illya’s mind whirled around that implication until he came upon the answer. "A psychological test? I told you Charlie; I won't talk about it." 

"I know you refused the doctors in Tehran. They marked it as excusable until you regained your strength. But I can’t cover for you, Illya. It would be the standard test. I swear,” he held up his hand in a Boy Scout pledge. “I'll even sign a consent form stating so." 

Illya regarded him warily. Despite their banter, Charlie had tricked him in the past to get him to take medication or reveal something he didn't want to. "What's the catch?"

"You submit to the psychological test, a check-up once a week until I sign your release...and you see the psychiatrist at least three times," he let out in a rush. 

“No.” No one was getting inside his head voluntarily. It was bad enough Thrush got there despite his best efforts. 

Charlie shrugged and proclaimed, "Then I keep you on medical leave until you're 40." 

"You can't do that!" he exploded. 

Charlie knelt down and stared into Illya’s eyes. "I can and I will.”

The staring match went on for some time, neither gaining the upper hand. Some of Illya’s resolve faded; he knew he could only push the doctor so far before their friendship gave way to duty. But he wouldn’t give in without a fight. "I'll take it up with Waverly." 

"And he'll side with me.” A smile started, then faded on Charlie’s lips. “We've done this before, Illya. I relented a few times, but not when it was serious. This is as serious as it gets." 

Panic filled Illya’s chest. "You don't understand. I won't let …” his voice trailed off, but in his head he finished the thought, ‘Anyone see what I became.’ The lead weight in his stomach grew. 

"I do understand,” Charlie answered softly. “I've seen agents come through here, stubborn as mules, and six or eight months down the line, crack up. That's why you need to talk about it. It'll eat at you until you lose it. If that's the case, then you won't just hurt yourself. You could hurt others as well." 

"My control is fine,” he lied again. 

Charlie shoved back from him, causing the wheelchair to shake. "Your control is crap and you know it. Talk to her, please?" 

That got his full attention. "Her?" 

"The psychiatrist. Dr. Ursula Roshenko. Brilliant woman," Charlie explained as he bent to the task of examining Illya’s wounds. 

Illya’s guard went up immediately. "I've never heard of her." 

Charlie unwrapped the bandages around his wrists as he talked, testing Illya’s reflexes. "She arrived two weeks ago. She was called in when Peter couldn't handle the workload anymore." 

"She's his assistant?" His disdain at being offered anyone less than a professional shone clear through. 

"She's a doctor,” Charlie replied with infinite patience. “Her specialty is deep trauma. Waverly requested she be sent here from the European office. She's a bit cool, but then, so were you when you first arrived." 

Charlie was trying to lighten the mood. Their banter reminded Illya of his and Napoleon’s. Part of the lead weight in his stomach migrated north to settle over his heart. Where was Napoleon? Why wasn’t he in U.N.C.L.E.? Remembering the barb that had been tossed his way, he replied, "Cool? I was hoping Siberia came across in my gaze." 

Charlie finished with Illya’s hands and went to get fresh bandages. "Oh, it did...for all of a week. Your first team reported back that you gorged yourself on cotton candy and popcorn at the carnival you were investigating, and that was the end of 'Iceberg Illya.'" He began to rewrap Illya’s wrists, his old smile firmly in place. 

Illya offered a parody of a frown. "My cover was blown that early? How disappointing." 

"Well, you were working with the best team assembled," Charlie replied. 

"Of course,” he sniffed. “I picked them."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Of course." He grew serious again and asked quietly, "Have the nightmares started yet?"

Illya shot him a cool glare, but said nothing. He didn't have to. It seemed all doctors had a sixth sense about these things. 

Charlie offered him a sympathetic smile. "I'm assuming they're sporadic, or else you'd be more jittery. Please, talk to Dr. Roshenko before they get worse,” he pleaded again. “She might be able to help you control them." 

Damn him. Charlie knew him entirely too well. Control was his weakness; he wanted all of it, and what his body was going through now took most control away from him. His mind was going to become his worst enemy very soon; he could sense it. "Are you making it an order?" Illya asked, only some of his usual aggrieved tone in his voice. 

"I can if I have to," Charlie replied, staring at him through narrowed eyes. He scribbled on a piece of paper and tossed it at him. "See the doctor." 

"Yes, sir," Illya sighed. He hoped Charlie had gotten everything he wanted. He would see this Dr. Roshenko after he stopped by his office and saw what had piled up in his absence. He had been too weak before to really care about paperwork, and Thrush, and any of the numerous things that had kept him occupied. Now he was more alert and felt the need to do something. He had been idle far too long. 

"Now, how about we take a look at that leg." Charlie went to get the rolling chair as Illya stood up and removed his pants. He remained stoic as the doctor tested his knee and checked on the electrical burn on his thigh. 

Charlie’s gloved fingers tested the newly-healed skin around the burn. "Nasty. But it seems to be healing as expected. You're damn lucky it didn't go deeper. Are you taking any pain medication?" he asked, seemingly as an afterthought. 

"Yes,” Illya answered, too distracted by his thoughts to monitor his responses. 

Charlie looked up at him, startled. "You really are, aren't you?"

"Yes." He frowned, unsure what the problem was. All the doctors tried to plow him with drugs, and he took them when he felt it necessary. Just because he was taking them voluntarily now, didn’t mean he would in the future. 

"Damn," he whistled softly. "I usually have to practically force any mediation down your throat. Go see Roshenko." 

"Quit harping! I'm going to see the damn doctor,” he snarled. He was not looking forward to this. There were only two people in U.N.C.L.E. who he allowed to manipulate him; Napoleon and Charlie. It didn’t mean he liked it, however. 

"All right, all right." Charlie changed the bandages and told him he could get dressed. "I'll call Ursula and tell her you'll be down in few minutes."

"An hour. I want to go to my office first." The doctor started to protest, but Illya remained firm. "An hour. Don't make me up it to two." 

"Fine, fine. One hour,” he relented. “But if you aren't there, I'm alerting all of Headquarters." 

"Understood." He narrowed his eyes at the wheelchair. "Do you have a cane I can use?" 

Charlie looked surprised. "How has your therapy been going?" 

"I’m able to walk, if I have a cane." That much was true. He just didn’t mention that he wasn’t supposed to be walking yet. 

Charlie glared at him suspiciously. "Why weren't you given one, then?" 

“I tire quickly,” Illya answered a bit too fast. At Charlie’s raised eyebrow, he scowled. “The doctor in Tehran refused to give me one. My threats only went so far.” 

“I see.” Illya could have sworn Charlie was hiding a smile. But he couldn’t prove it, as the doctor went to the back room and returned with a smallish crutch. “This should do for now. It will give you more balance than just a straight cane.” 

“Thank you.” He stood up and tested his leg. He could tell he wasn’t full strength, but he could walk without stumbling and embarrassing himself. 

“I’ll see you next week,” Charlie said far too cheerfully. 

His scowl deepened. He turned and started to make his way to his office.

~~~

Napoleon made sure he was one of the last people off the plane. Logically, he knew it was faster if Illya exited the plane via wheelchair, but to see his proud, stubborn lover capitulate tore at his heart. His detachment could only carry him so far. This was his lover that was recovering. Even from the distance he was away, he could still tell that Illya was in a great deal of pain, mostly his back and probably his leg. Most of his bandages were either gone or underneath loose-fitting clothing, so it was harder to assess damage. 

He busied himself with folding the newspaper he had been reading and tucking it into his luggage. The plane was empty by the time he finished. He nodded to the stewardess as he exited the plane. As he made his way through customs, he thought of a place where he could stay. There were a few motels that would serve his purpose on the outskirts of the city. He opted to remain in costume, as it would be easier to get out of the airport. Assuming some of the survivors of his little blast in Mashhad were those who knew of his resignation, Thrush might be after him now that he didn't have U.N.C.L.E.’s protection behind him. Then again, maybe they didn't care about ex-U.N.C.L.E. agents. Only those who were in their immediate way. 

His stomach did a dive as he thought again about what he was going to do. He had worked most of his adult life for U.N.C.L.E., gearing himself to take over once Waverly retired. He hadn't given a thought to doing anything else. He hadn't conceived of doing anything else. Once exposed to the life of a spy, he knew any other job would pale by comparison. What had he been thinking? Since when did the life of any one agent mean more than his career; his life? 

Since he had met his equal. Traded insults, innuendo, and ideas. He loved Illya's quick wit as much as his sharp mind. They had seen each other at their worst and at their best. 

He hadn't thought things through. He had made a hasty decision based on his emotions, and now he was paying the price. He was without a job and without that, he had lost the means by which he could have kept tabs on Illya. 

Cruel irony. He gave up his life to save Illya, only to realize he had cut himself off from the one thing that enabled him to work with Illya. Was this a life for a life? He hadn't believed in that until now. When he handed in his credentials, he hadn't given a second thought to the consequences. His only concern was finding Illya, then getting him medical care. Now the consequences were all too real. 

He wondered how long U.N.C.L.E. would let him run loose before they demanded he return to HQ for detraining. His situation was unique in that his position gave him more access to sensitive files. He could be deemed a liability to U.N.C.L.E. Though his record was spotless, the two times he had outright questioned Waverly's orders were when they affected his partner directly. While loyalty to ones partner was beneficial and even encouraged, blind loyalty was dangerous. And he admitted freely that he had blind loyalty to Illya. 

He dropped the suitcase at the foot of the bed and stood, unsure what to do. He wasn’t used to inactivity. Even on his “off time” from U.N.C.L.E. field work, he still had paperwork, or people to see, or any of a dozen social engagements to partake in. Now, he had nothing. His knees slowly collapsed under him, and he found himself flat on his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling. What was he going to do? 

~~~

It appeared a normal setting. Illya at his desk, sifting through the reports of the agents under him. Pen in hand, albeit a bit awkwardly, he made notes or signed off on the reports and tossed them in his 'out' box. Inside, however, things were not normal. 

He had died on the table. The nurses and doctors didn’t tell him that while he was still in danger. Did they think him some weak child who would fall apart at that knowledge? He had been tortured both mentally and physically; did they think he couldn't handle that additional bit of information as well? 

His hands were shaking. He immediately pushed them down on the desk, trying to still the tremors. But they would not stop. He wouldn't have died in the line of fire, like he always thought would happen. He would have died alone in that sterile room. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat as panic twisted his stomach. 

No! his mind screamed back at him. Do not give in to the fear. Do not give in to the weakness. He took several deep breaths and composed himself. He ordered his hands to stop shaking and they stilled. He forced himself to his feet, grabbed the crutch, and headed down to the psychiatric section of U.N.C.L.E. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could go home. 

"I'm here to see Dr. Roshenko," he informed the secretary. 

Mild surprise lifted her eyebrow, but at a scowl from him she diverted her gaze. She buzzed the back office. "Mr. Kuryakin is here to see you." 

"Send him in," a thickly accented voice instructed. 

Illya knocked once, then entered the room. A woman in her 30s, with glasses perched on the end of her nose looked up. "Dr. Roshenko," he nodded politely. 

She rose to her feet and returned the nod. "Agent Kuryakin. Please have a seat." 

He settled himself down on the regular chair in the office, refusing to go near the couch. None of the other psychiatrists had gotten him to lie down; none of them dared try after his stalwart refusal to speak to them. He propped the crutch beside the chair and waited for her to begin. 

Roshenko reseated herself and got right down to business. "We will start with the standard check-in. Dr. Mallory informed me that you are prepared for this. Is this correct?"

He met her gaze unflinchingly. "Yes."


	5. Ruse

Napoleon walked around the motel room, feeling as if he had been gone years instead of mere weeks. There were no agents waiting for him at the airport, Thrush or U.N.C.L.E. It was as if he merely stopped existing. It was a very disorienting feeling. 

What made it worse was his anchor was missing. Illya was probably locked away in U.N.C.L.E. HQ, being poked and prodded and tested for Thrush subliminal threats. Illya always let everyone know how much he loathed them, but only Napoleon knew how scared Illya was in those sessions. What if his mind had been used against him? What if Thrush really had managed to break him? It was beyond intolerable for his stubborn friend. It was one of the few things that truly frightened him. 

Napoleon had become accustomed to their talks after one of them had gone through debriefing. The cognac, the admitted frailties of the human body and mind, then finally the reassurances. Before they had become lovers, that had consisted of bad humor, more cognac, and a good night’s sleep on the other’s couch. But afterwards – afterwards, they relished in the life-affirming touch of the other. The sweet taste of overheated skin. The knowing sound of a shuddered indrawn breath. The delicate, savage joining of their bodies, dancing too close to the edge to last long. That infinite second just before release, when the world rights itself and only two people exist. 

A thunderclap crashed at the same instant lightning lit the room and Napoleon’s startled face. He walked over to the window and pushed the curtains aside. There was a summer storm rolling in. His hand itched to hold his partner to his side, as it always did when a storm drenched New York City. Together they rode out any storm. 

But this latest storm that Thrush had dumped on them had separated them. Would they be together again? Napoleon’s head fell forward until he rested against the cold windowpane. 

The door burst open, startling him. Napoleon’s hand moved instinctively to his gun, but halted as Thrush machine guns rose to level at his heart. He froze. 

“Mr. Solo,” a man called with the air of the agent in charge. He looked pleasant enough, with neatly trimmed light brown hair, smiling green eyes, a slightly upturned mouth, pressed suit and polished wingtips. The Thrush agent stepped through the door and smiled at his captive. 

Three agents with machine guns, plus the head agent. Napoleon thought quickly. If he couldn’t serve U.N.C.L.E. directly, maybe he could by other means. If he could gain the trust of Thrush, they might consider him for their own organization. He might be able to turn this potentially deadly encounter into something that would benefit U.N.C.L.E.

He straightened his back and put as much indignation in his voice as he could. "It's about time you showed up," he growled. 

The Thrush agent in charge actually lowered his gun in surprise. "I beg your pardon?" Napoleon braved moving about the room, pacing as if angry. "It only took your guys in Iraq two hours to locate me after landing. It took you half a day. Sloppy work, gentlemen. I expect more from you." Even as he spoke, his mind whirled. They must have followed him from the airport. He made no plans through normal channels, so how had they known he was back in New York City? Or did they not know he left at all? He had far too many questions, and no time to have them answered. 

Thrush were undoubtedly confused by Napoleon’s words, but the head agent recovered quickly, and with aplomb. "We wanted to see where you would go. Why did you not report to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters?" 

Napoleon barked a laugh. “Why would I do that? I resigned over four months ago.” He walked over to the mirror and smoothed a hair back into place. “Or haven’t your superiors revealed that bit of information to field agents?” 

“So it is true.” The man motioned with his hand, and one lackey went to check Napoleon for weapons. “Make sure to get his communicator pen and gun as well.” 

“I handed them in along with my credentials,” Napoleon informed the other agent. He tolerated the Thrush agent’s quick pat down, then straightened his suit again. 

The Thrush agent glared at him. “You expect me to believe that you gave up your life’s work because Illya Kuryakin was killed? Do you think me some naïve graduate, Mr. Solo? You were next in line to take over for Waverly. The old man is getting older by the minute. The New York office, as well as the eastern seaboard, was to be yours.” 

“I resigned because I was bored,” Napoleon explained with the air of a man at the end of his patience. “Waverly may be an old man, but he’s a shrewd one. He kept me under his foot, dangling the damn promotion like a carrot to keep me in line. I wised up to his scheme. He never intended to retire. When he finally did die, he was planning on handing U.N.C.L.E. over to some other Number One from another branch. I wasn’t going to be played a fool any longer.” He nodded to the guys holding the guns. “That’s when you came in. Some Thrush agents approached me in Mashhad and initiated a business proposition.” 

The agent in charge interrupted. “Yes, I have some questions for you about your time in Iraq. It seemed very coincidental that mere hours after your arrival, our headquarters were destroyed." 

“Really? I hadn’t heard,” Napoleon lied smoothly. “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with that? I was there on vacation." 

The agent’s smile was anything but pleasant. “You vacation in the country where your partner was killed?” 

Napoleon shrugged. “Partner is such a strong word. I wasn’t that attached to him. He was an annoyance, actually. Always insisting on playing everything by the books. I like living on the edge.” 

The agents started to relax, lowering their guns and leaning on furniture. Napoleon began to breathe easier. 

“I’m aware of your love of danger, Mr. Solo. And I’m willing to offer you a deal.” 

“What sort of deal?” 

“Mr. Kuryakin went to Mashhad to get a formula for a virus created by Doctor Hoang. I want you to recover the formula that which he stole from us.” 

“What’s in it for me?”

With a nod from the Thrush agent, the guns were trained on Napoleon’s chest. “You get to live.” 

Napoleon chuckled darkly. “If that’s all you’re willing to offer, you can leave right now.” 

“You’re being incredibly arrogant, Mr. Solo.”

“I have reason to be. I can get something you want. The question, just how badly do you want it? An offer of continuing to breathe hardly constitutes incentive.”

“Very well. What about a place in our organization? A position of power? Real power.” 

Napoleon rubbed his finger across his lips in contemplation. “Mm, better. I have a rich lifestyle that I’ve grown quite accustomed to.” 

“We can supply you with the means to continue living your life in any style you choose.” 

“Done. When do you need it by?” 

"Precisely 24 hours from now."

“It can’t be done.” 

“You have no choice. Either you have the formula, or we will hunt you down and kill you.” 

The Thrush agents left his room one by one, until Napoleon was alone again. He fell to the bed and slumped back against the headboard. What was he going to do? A thought followed that one; What choice did he have? He had to steal the formula, or he had to warn U.N.C.L.E. that Thrush was still after the formula. Either way, he saw only one way of doing either: getting into Headquarters. If he was killed in the process of sneaking into U.N.C.L.E., only one person would mourn his passing – Illya. But that one person outweighed everyone else. Illya’s opinion of him was the only one that mattered now. What would Illya think of him betraying U.N.C.L.E.? 

Illya didn’t even know he’d resigned U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to order his thoughts elsewhere. Like on how he was going to break into Headquarters. If his codes still worked, it would be a simple matter. If the codes had been changed, he was in for one interesting night. Twenty-four hours. He sat up. He had a lot of planning to do. 

~~~

"You handled yourself remarkably well, Mr. Kuryakin," Roshenko complimented him as she scribbled on the paper in front of her. 

"I've been through this before," he reminded her as he wiped his face. He was dripping with sweat by the time she finally declared him clean. Forty-five minutes, a glance at the clock on her desk revealed. Forty-five minutes of pure hell. His thoughts strayed to Napoleon, and how he would normally be waiting back at Illya’s office after one of these sessions. They would go to one or the other’s apartment, still unwilling to risk their jobs and their lives by admitting their private lives existed. Then they would ‘reaffirm’, as Napoleon liked to call it. Illya preferred the cruder term, “Riding the devil out of them.” At least the riding part was enjoyable… 

"So you have," she noted as she scanned a piece of paper, in reply to his remark. He immediately went on his guard. "It seems Thrush likes you, Mr. Kuryakin." 

"So it would seem," he replied vaguely. His eyes narrowed at her. Her tone hadn't changed, but he sensed the subtle difference in her manner. His first hour had begun. 

She kept her eyes on the paper. "How are you feeling toward Thrush right now, Mr. Kuryakin?" 

He kept his face impassive. "They’re the bad guys. I'm with the good guys." 

Her eyes flicked to his face. Piercing gray met his unblinking blue. "That is not an answer. I asked how you are feeling toward the enemy." 

"I feel nothing toward the enemy," he replied without emotion. 

She folded her hands neatly on the desktop. Her voice was precise as she asked, "Really? Not anger or frustration?"

He kept his tone light, not wanting to give anything away by inflection. "Why should I feel anger? They do their job. I do mine." 

She latched onto his omission. "What about frustration?" 

He allowed a small smile, designed to throw her off-track. "Only in that they keep coming back." 

Her gaze met his unwavering. "So you would like them stopped permanently." Her questions sounded like statements. She was being as emotionally detached as he was. Good. He could handle that. 

He shrugged lightly. "Their actions, yes.” It was true. He wanted Thrush stopped permanently. He just didn’t let on that he wanted to do it by ripping their heads off with his bare hands. 

She pressed harder. "What about the individuals? Would you mourn their passing?" 

He kept his answers vague, only replying in general terms. He could sense a growing frustration from Roshenko; good. She wanted him to talk about this one incident; he was going to avoid that for as long as possible. "They follow their orders, just as I do." 

"What about Miss Diketon? Mr. Partridge? Mother Fear?” She fired off names that should have some emotional impact on him. What she didn’t know was that he honestly bore them no ill will. Most of his tormentors were dead, either by his own hand or Napoleon’s. Justice had long been served. Yet she continued, “What about them? They were in a position of power over you." 

He allowed his smile to widen with satisfaction that he didn’t feel. He was never happy when someone died. In a roundabout way, it was part of his job to save lives. "And now they are not." 

She fired off the next question so fast he blinked at the intensity. "Tell me about Mashhad. Is the city memorable?" 

The abrupt change in subject caught him off-guard. "It's…colorful," he blurted out, suddenly very wary of Roshenko. He had been lulled into a sense of security, despite his best efforts. She was playing dirty. He could play dirty, too. 

She shifted the papers on her desk with a nonchalance that worried him. Her voice was completely dispassionate as she asked, "Tell me about your mission." 

He gave his report again, giving the same lack of information on his capture as he had in Mashhad, matching her tone. He would not let her get the better of him again. 

She moved one sheet of paper to the top of the pile, picked up her pen and started taking notes. "And what of your abduction? Do you recall any of it?" 

Her methodology grated on his nerves. Stack, shuffle, align, pick up pen and write. He saw her do it three times now, each time exactly the same. He answered through clenched teeth, "I was at the café, sitting under the canopy. I came to consciousness in a cell." 

The pen scratched on the paper. Her voice was devoid of emotion as she probed, "You have no recollection of losing consciousness?"

"No." It was a flaw in his memory he did not like. Illya’s eyes remained trained on the pen. Scratch. He answered, she wrote. 

Her tone was flat. "Describe the cell."

"A beautiful haven for tourists,” he fired back at her, unable to control his irrational anger. 

The pen was slammed to the desktop, and she ripped off her glasses. "Mr. Kuryakin, do not waste my time with deflections. Just tell me the facts and we can both be done with this." 

They glared at each other for a good minute, maybe longer, before Illya recounted, "It was a cell. Several feet bigger than this room. No windows. Ceiling roughly ten foot high. Walls made of large stones. Steel door." 

Roshenko picked up the pen again. Scratch. 

Illya suppressed a shudder. Why was this bothering him? It was just a pen on paper. 

"Were you ever taken out of the cell?" The same flat tone. The same disinterest he was displaying. So why didn’t they both call a truce and he could go home? 

"I escaped once. They removed me two other times,” he recited. 

Scratch. Shudder. 

"How far did you escape? Can you recall your surroundings?" 

He hesitated the briefest moment before answering. _Hands cuffed together, he had darted down corridor after corridor, looking for an exit. The stone walls were unending with no doors, no windows; only the dim light from the above bulbs. Panic overrode his normal sense of direction. He crashed into a wall at the end of one corridor; he had miscalculated the distance._ "Twisting corridors with the same stones for walls. One window about five feet off the ground, down a corridor to my left." 

"Did you try to reach the window? Was it barred?" 

_Shaking off his momentary dizziness, he spotted a window about halfway up the ten foot wall. Wildly glancing around, he couldn’t find anything to help him reach it. He dug his fingertips into the mortar and carefully started to pull himself up the wall._ "I jumped to reach it. There were no bars." 

Scratch. "Why did you not escape at this time?"

 _A bullet whined by his ear, startling him and he lost his grip. He landed full weight on his left leg, twisting his body as he fell. Excruciating pain lanced through his knee, driving away all the minor wounds they had inflicted upon him._ "They fired at me. Shots struck right near my head. I lost my balance and fell to the ground, twisting my knee." 

"You were returned to your cell?"

 _They hauled him off to the first of three punishments, thankfully halfway carrying him. He couldn’t walk in his current condition._ "Eventually." 

"Were you punished?"

 _They held him underwater for longer than he could hold his breath and he nearly choked to death before they threw him to the floor. He couldn’t speak through the pain. Even if he wanted to tell them everything, his voice refused to work. Except to scream. That, he had the voice for._ He ordered his voice to remain steady. "Yes." 

"Could you list them for me on this piece of paper?" She held out the crisp white sheet, and he took it with trepidation. 

This was a new tactic he was not prepared for. Write down, for his superiors to see, what had happened to him? He ordered his hands not to shake. "My handwriting is hampered." 

"It does not matter,” she informed him crisply. “No one but you will see it. You may use shorthand or abbreviations if you wish. The most complete list you can manage, if you please." 

He took the pen she offered without feeling it. He was blinded by the brightness of the paper, so he hastily began to write to blot it out. Electric shock, beatings, poisoned food....he listed everything he could remember, then passed the sheet back to her. 

She folded it and put it on the corner of her desk without reading it. "When we are through, you may take it with you."

He stared at the paper, then at her. What sort of game was this? "You really aren't going to read it?"

"I said I would not. It is of little concern to me." She sat back in her chair and regarded him. "You do not believe me." 

He blinked. She had surprised him again. He did _not_ like the implication. Was he slipping? Was his physical condition affecting his reactions? Had he become…weak? "I have no reason not to believe you," he answered calmly. 

She picked up the pen and held it just under her chin. "Yet you still distrust me."

"Don’t be offended. I distrust doctors of any kind,” he was quick to tell her. That, at least, was true. But there was something about this Roshenko that went beyond that. 

A smile twitched her lips. "I do not offend so easily. And I am aware of your distrust of doctors in general. If you detest us so, why did you agree to see me?" 

He was blunt: "You’re next in line to get me reinstated on active duty. After you comes Mallory. After him, Waverly. You're merely a stepping stone." 

She glanced at something on her desk, a calendar by the looks of it. "Yet you requested three meetings with me. Why?"

"Dr. Mallory insisted." _Coerced_ , he corrected silently. Charlie had been concerned about him, but all the other psychiatrists he’d seen had just wanted him to talk about his feelings. Roshenko wanted something else from him. He didn’t know what, and his mind was going in circles trying to figure out what it was. It was affecting his concentration. 

She called his bluff. "You bargained with him, you mean. You see me, and in exchange you return to work despite not being 100%. I am not so naive, Mr. Kuryakin." 

He inclined his head in acquiesce. "Then we don't need to proceed any longer, doctor. I'll return to my office and you can assist another wounded soul." He stood up with care and held out his hand. "I'll take my list now." 

She placed her hand on top of it, but did not pick it up. "I said you could have it when we were through, not when you left." 

Warning bells went off in his head, and all his instincts screamed for him to proceed with caution. "What's the difference?" 

She removed her glasses, and her gray eyes pierced him again. "Three sessions, Mr. Kuryakin. At the end of the last one, you may have the list back." 

"And if I leave now, you'll put it in my file,” he shot back with contempt. He knew she shouldn’t have listened to Charlie. Now this latest incident with Thrush would end up in his record, and he would have to explain himself before every mission. It was precisely for that reason he didn’t want to talk to doctors. They interfered with his career. 

Her voice was still cool and detached as she explained, "I am not a blackmailer. I will simply throw it away." 

He very nearly laughed. He knew all the tricks; he’d done most of them himself in the past. "For someone to find in your trash can," he replied knowingly. 

She was studying him. Nervous trails went up and down his spine at her regard. "You are most distrustful. Were you like this before Thrush got hold of you?" 

He defended himself quickly and succinctly. "I haven't changed. Not since the day I joined U.N.C.L.E." 

"Really.” She picked up her glasses and peered through them to the sheet of paper on top of the pile in front of her. “That is not what my reports show. You have undergone quite a personality change over the last eight years.” She lowered the glasses and stared up at him. “You trusted at least one person." 

"I still do," he snapped before he could stop himself. Damn it, she was pushing buttons he didn’t realize he had. He went back in his mind, concentrated on his heartbeat and his breathing, calming himself. Her voice drifted to him. 

"Napoleon Solo has been your partner for six years, correct?" 

"Yes," he answered without fear. That question couldn’t hurt him. It was in the records. 

"You have a good working relationship with him. A very impressive track record as well. You work only with him?" she asked, and his suspicion flared. 

"Not all the time,” he answered carefully. She was going somewhere. He tried to outthink her. He would not let her best him. 

"But you work best with him. You trust him,” she stated simply. 

"What does Napoleon have to do with me?" he turned the tables on her. Where was she going with this? Why bring up Napoleon? 

Her voice was light; too light. He braced himself for her attack. "He rescued you. He was also your contact man back here. He was supposed to be your backup if things went wrong." 

_They went wrong!_ he heard himself yelling at Napoleon, back in Mashhad. The memories were too fresh; too real still. His emotions were too raw. He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud until Roshenko answered him.

"Yes, they did. And Agent Solo wasn't there." 

"He thought I was dead. They all did," he whispered, recalling the haunted look in his lover's eyes. Brown eyes tinged with red, as if he hadn’t slept in days. 

"He waited three weeks before rescuing you." Her voice was persuading, lilting. Trusting. 

He found himself answering, "There were complications.” Her next statement rocked him to his core. 

She very calmly declared, "You hated him." 

"No!" he shouted in an irrational burst of anger. "I don't hate him. I _can't_ hate him." Anger boiled up inside him, wanting release. He fought against it. He started to walk away, but his back spasmed and he had to stop where he was. The electrical shocks had affected his nervous system. One thing he had told none of the doctors. If they knew, he would be permanently removed from field work, and that was unacceptable. 

Her voice still had that persuasive tone, but she was getting louder. "But you were angry with him. Hurt. Resentful." 

"I was barely conscious most of the time,” he snapped back without pausing to think. “I was unconscious when Napoleon found me," he deflected, not wanting to answer any more questions. 

Her voice rose again in volume. Provoking him. "But you were angry with him." 

No. He could never be angry at Napoleon. Not truly angry. Napoleon rescued him. He saved him from death. Illya started to explain again, "I was unconscious..."

"You would have been rescued earlier if Solo had bothered to look for you,” she taunted him. Reminded him. Echoed his own words to Napoleon. “He was your partner. He was your backup if things went wrong. Did they not go wrong, Illya? Did you want to stay there forever? Did you enjoy your stay in Thrush’s loving care?” 

Her voice swirled with his tormentor’s and Napoleon’s apologetic tone and the anguish in his eyes and her flashing gray eyes lit in triumph and the laughter of his captor echoed loudly, too loudly in his head…

"He thought I was dead!" he shouted. A bead of sweat trickled down his back. 

"You did die." 

Absolute, abject terror twisted itself around his spine, rendering him immobile. The words weren’t yelled. They weren’t even spoken above normal speaking volume. Yet the scream of it echoed in Illya's ears. He dropped into the chair, the crutch falling to the floor with a dull whump. 

The calm voice continued, "In the hospital. Lying on the surgical bed. Your heart stopped.” 

“No,” he denied on a breath. Even with black and white evidence he had seen with his own eyes, he refused to believe. 

“It is in the medical reports…”

“I have seen them and do not care what they say.” His heart pounded a frantic rhythm in his chest. The panic that started back in his office returned full force. 

“You are a highly logical man, Mr. Kuryakin. Why does this simple fact trouble you so?” 

He shook his head, refusing to answer. Unable to answer. Irrational fear overwhelmed him. 

"You were expecting something else? Did you want to die like that?"

His voice returned at full volume. “No!” He struggled to control himself. Control. The mere thought of the word calmed him. He continued in a more moderate tone, "I was not expecting to die. I survived their beatings, their drownings and their poisons. I fought against myself to stay alive. When my body gave up, my mind refused to give in. I will not allow that to happen, do you not understand? In my mind, I won. And now that report," he spat, "tells me that I lost. That my body gave up. I refuse to believe that." 

"Is it so hard for you to accept that your body has limits? That even your mind can only take so much?" 

"I trained myself to go beyond those limits. It is why I am still alive." 

"You are alive because of modern medicine."

"I am alive because my mind ordered my body to live," he countered quietly. 

“Your body failed you. Your body betrayed you. Your body’s weakness to the sufferings of mere mortal man.” 

“I had no choice!”

“There is always a choice, Mr. Kuryakin. You could have chosen to die at their hands. You could have chosen to give the information they demanded.” 

"Nyet!” He realized belatedly that they had been speaking in his mother tongue. He abruptly switched back to English. “That’s not acceptable. I had a job to do and I did it. I am not weak. I'm not..." his voice trailed off in horror as the full realization of what he had revealed hit him square in the chest. Fear that he had lost control came back. He was too weak to withstand their torture. She voiced what could endanger him, his teammates, and all of U.N.C.L.E.’s future victories. 

"You are mortal, Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin. It is time you accepted that." 

Mortal. It was true. He was mortal; it was something he tended not to think about. Remembering that he could die while out in the middle of a firefight was the surest way to get killed. Hesitation was an enemy, just as much of one as Thrush. An agent couldn’t think about their lives when they were fighting Thrush. They couldn’t worry about their families, things they might leave behind, loved ones, friends. They needed to focus on the job at hand. Being human wasn’t part of the job description. 

And here was a supposed psychologist, reminding him that he was mortal. Had she orders to keep him off active duty? What purpose could this possibly serve? He was Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin – Number One of Section Two, U.N.C.L.E.. And he would remain in that position until his retirement year. 

" _No_." He stood, leaned over and grabbed the paper off her desk. "If I accept that, I fail as an agent. I can't worry about my mortality when I'm in the field. You should know that. If you think you can frighten me into desk duty, you've grossly underestimated me." With that final statement, he retrieved his crutch from the floor and moved as quickly as he could away from her office. 

He ignored everyone he passed, their good wishes and surprised exclamations. He opened his office door and shut it behind him. Only then did he notice the racing of his heart, the pounding of blood through his veins. What was she doing? Did she have orders to remove him from field work? Did she intend to destroy his sense of self in the course of her "treatment"? 

No, he would not return to her. He would speak to Waverly and settle this, agent to agent. His body sagged against the door, and he hissed as his back protested. The day's events caught up to him, and he felt exhaustion clawing at his reserves. He would speak to Waverly in the morning. First, he needed rest. He pushed himself away from the door with a sigh. 

"Hello, Illya," a familiar voice spoke behind him. 

Illya turned, his surprised gaze falling to the sight of Napoleon sitting at his desk. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something was very wrong. "Why are you here?" he asked as he appraised the pained look on Napoleon's face. It almost looked like...fear. What could frighten Napoleon in U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters? 

Napoleon swung his legs off the desk, onto the floor. "I needed to get some information and I hoped you could help me."

"If I can," Illya answered warily. There was something odd about his partner. Napoleon still hadn't met his eyes. They cast about the room, as if he were nervous. 

"What happened to the microfilm that contained Hoang's research?"

"The team in Paris has it for analysis," Illya lied carefully. Why on earth would Napoleon be asking him about that? The assignment was over and done with. It had been for weeks. Illya's gaze regarded the man he thought friend. The hardened lines around Napoleon's eyes and mouth were new and unpleasant. His clothes were clandestine black, as if he didn't want to be seen. Something was very, very wrong. 

Napoleon stood, and Illya's senses screamed to proceed with caution. "Thrush is after it." 

Hardly surprising. Thrush had been most adamant about getting the formula. He had the scars to prove it. "I don't doubt they are." 

"No, I mean they want it now." Napoleon's voice sounded meek, something Illya didn't think possible. "Illya, you don't know what's happened." 

Overtired, overemotional, and on edge, Illya snapped, “Of course I don’t. I haven’t been at U.N.C.L.E. for months. Please, enlighten me, Napoleon. What is going on? Why are you sneaking around? Why the deception on the plane? Why didn’t you accompany me to Headquarters? Why were you not at my side in Tehran?” 

Napoleon looked everywhere but at him. His eyes finally met Illya’s, and Illya saw the confusion in them. "I can't..."

They were both startled by the door opening. Mr. Waverly stepped through, and the door closed on silence. 

"Sir," Illya acknowledged briefly, but his full attention was on Napoleon. The normally healthy pallor had faded to a dangerous pale, and Napoleon looked as if he would bolt from the room at the slightest movement. 

"Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo." Waverly's eyes slid from the Russian to the American, assessing them both in one shrewd gaze. "I take it your recovery is going well?" he said to Illya, though his attention was on Napoleon. 

"As well as can be expected," Illya answered automatically, not paying attention to the conversation. The non-verbal signals he was getting were confusing. Why was Napoleon so jittery? 

"Mr. Solo." There seemed to be an order there, but Illya didn't know what for. 

Napoleon didn't appear to know either, as he continued to stare without saying anything. 

"Would you two gentlemen care to join me in my office? I believe we have some things to discuss." Without waiting for an answer, Waverly turned and left. 

Illya stared after him for a moment, then turned to Napoleon. His partner was still pale, and now a thin sheen of sweat beaded his upper lip. Nervous? About seeing Waverly? Something was very wrong. "Napoleon, are you all right?"

"No, I'm not all right." Napoleon met his eyes, and a shiver chased itself down Illya's spine. A haunted look clouded those brown eyes. "I can't go." 

"To Waverly's office?" Illya clarified. "Why not?"

"I can't," he insisted. 

"Why not?" Illya demanded. “What is wrong with you?” 

Napoleon scowled and started to pace. Illya grew dizzy watching him move back and forth. On the next turn, Napoleon whirled and hissed, "I quit, that's why!" 

The words echoed in the stillness. _I Quit_. Illya didn't know what to say, but it seemed Napoleon had more than enough on his mind. 

"I shouldn't be standing here. I should be deprogrammed. I shouldn't remember you, or this place, or the codes to get in. I shouldn't remember anything about the formula, or Tehran, or any number of things. Don't you understand, Illya?"

"You quit." Illya couldn't wrap his mind around that concept. It explained a few things; more than a few things. The disguise on the plane. His absence in Tehran. But when had Napoleon resigned? Why hadn't Waverly called security? Why was Napoleon in Headquarters, now? 

Napoleon cleared his throat and looked to the floor. "Yes, I quit." 

"When?" he demanded. 

"Two weeks after you disappeared," Napoleon whispered. 

His mouth opened in astonishment. "But -- the hospital. The communication." His mind raced ahead. "The disguise. Rescuing me...the hospital. You weren't supposed to be there. The voices I heard...you were arguing with the nurse?" 

"I bullied them into letting me see you." Napoleon looked up with pleading eyes. "I had to see you, don't you understand? I found you. I brought you to the hospital. I had to make sure you..."

"Would live?" Roshenko’s words echoed back at him, and he ruthlessly shoved them aside. He was alive; he was breathing. That was all that mattered. 

He saw Napoleon’s Adam’s apple bob. "Yes. I thought I lost you. Waverly wouldn't let me go to Mashhad, so I quit and went on my own. The only way he would let me go was to quit." 

"You quit because of me?" His heart thumped. 

"I had to,” Napoleon explained desperately. “It was the only way I could rescue you." 

Illya felt something inside himself grow cold. A sick feeling of dread settled in his gut. He answered thickly, "I would never ask you to give up U.N.C.L.E. for me." 

Tears shone in Napoleon’s eyes. "You didn't ask. I offered." 

Illya was suddenly, wholly angry. "You had no right." He thumped his crutch on the floor. "I was one agent. All agents are expendable. You should have accepted whatever they told you." 

Napoleon's voice rose. "And left you to die?" His tone was incredulous. 

Illya's rose more. "Yes! That was your job! And now you have nothing!" 

Napoleon shouted, "I have you!" 

The thundering silence deafened Illya. What could he say to a statement like that? Napoleon had risked his life, given up his career, for him. What kind of repayment was necessary? What do you say to someone who sacrifices everything for you? Now the burden of what Napoleon had done rested on his shoulders. Illya said the first thing that came to him. 

"No, you don't."

He turned and left his office. As Illya turned down the corridor toward the elevator, he remembered that Waverly wanted to see them. Him. He closed his eyes and tried to gather whatever control he could. He couldn't continue this emotional high much longer. He had no reserves anymore, and he’d been on his feet most of the day. When he felt steadier, he entered the elevator and requested the top floor. He entered Waverly's office and sat down wearily. His body ached, his head was throbbing, and his leg tingled. He needed serious rest. He almost didn't register Waverly's presence. 

"Mr. Kuryakin. I asked to see both of you." 

"I cannot be responsible for Napoleon, sir," he answered without thinking. Was that the problem? He didn't want the responsibility of what Napoleon had done? That because Napoleon gave up his life, Illya was somehow now obliged to care about Napoleon's? And to think, just hours ago he had wondered where Napoleon was; what he was doing. Illya's chest tightened and his breath quickened. 

Behind him, the doors swooshed open and Napoleon entered. Illya didn't have to turn around to know it was him. He could sense the American. He always could, and he suspected he always would.


	6. Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't think he could feel worse than when he thought Illya dead. He was wrong. The pain he saw echoed in Illya's eyes reflected his own -- pain of betrayal. Napoleon Solo, whom the ladies called smooth and the men called cool, had continually mucked up when it came to Illya. Did love do this to him?

Waverly looked over both his agents with concern. Their friendship had been strained recently, with first Nexor, and then this latest incident with Hoang. His decision to keep Solo in the dark about his assignment was made in haste, and now he wasn't so sure it had been the right decision. Solo hadn't fought to keep his job; he had just walked away. But he couldn't walk away from Kuryakin. Waverly had no doubts that if Kuryakin had been dead, U.N.C.L.E. would have lost two agents instead of just one. All agents were expendable...that's what he was taught, and that's what he upheld...most of the time. He projected a hard-nosed view of the world. He had to, in order to do his job. He couldn't afford to be human; to allow his emotions to get in the way of his duties. He sent men and women into battlefields, and realistically, he knew some of them wouldn't return. 

He wasn't supposed to show favoritism. But Napoleon Solo evoked that in him. And now his best agent sat across from him, looking lost. No matter what had been done to him by Thrush, Solo always kept his spirit. That spirit was absent when he looked into his top agent's eyes. 

Kuryakin looked no better. Waverly had seen the medical file on his Number One of Section Two, and it chilled him. No man should go through something like that and live. Thrush had grown particularly cruel in the past few years, and Waverly admitted to no one but himself his hesitation at sending agents into the field. Kuryakin's capture and subsequent torture were reasons why. Extracting information used to be a civilized affair. Mutual respect, even if they were diametrically opposed on their viewpoints, used to rule the day. Now ruffians commanded Thrush, and their means were savage, if not downright inhumane. 

Did the ends justify the means? Could he, in good conscience, continue to send agents into the field to combat Thrush? The possibility of death used to be fairly low; now casualties occurred on nearly every mission. He was beginning to wonder if it was worth losing good men and women over. 

He never used to second-guess his decisions. Now he seemed to be doing it constantly. Maybe it was time for him to step down; let someone else take over. But his chosen successor was Solo, and he was in no condition at present to make any command decisions. He would have to change that. 

Waverly acknowledged the new arrival with a slight nod. "Mr. Solo. Now gentlemen, I asked you here for a specific purpose." 

"Sir, can I ask you something first?" Solo's voice sounded strained. 

He already knew the question, and was hoping to put off the answer until such time as he was ready to give it. Without a second thought, Waverly answered, "No. Now gentlemen..."

"Sir, this is important." 

Solo never interrupted his commanding officer. Waverly was slightly miffed, as well as heartened. Solo was getting some of his spirit back. "It can wait, Mr. Solo. As I was saying..."

"No, sir, it cannot," Solo emphasized his words with a quick thump to the table with his fist. "Why am I here?" 

Ah, there was that notorious Solo passion. It was good to see color in those cheeks again. Waverly deliberately gave a flip answer. "You are here at my request, Mr. Solo." 

Anger blazed in Solo’s eyes. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. I walked out of this office over three months ago. I handed over my ID badge and communicator pen. I resigned." 

Waverly tapped tobacco into his pipe. He lit the pipe as he calmly dropped the bombshell, "So you did. And I chose to ignore that fact." 

Silence greeted his announcement. Kuryakin’s face, normally so stoic, now flashed with emotions. And Solo, he looked as though he’d been punched in the gut. 

"Sir?" Solo’s voice came out higher than normal. 

Good. Maybe he’d shaken some sense into him. Waverly couldn’t, in good conscious, accept Solo’s resignation. He knew that if by some miracle Solo had managed to recover Kuryakin, then he would regret giving U.N.C.L.E. up. However, if Solo returned with only a body, or nothing at all, then he would have no choice but to promote Agent Hernandez to Number Two. While competent, Hernandez wasn’t his first choice. Thankfully, Solo had pulled off that miracle. "Mr. Solo, when you left, I realized you had opened up a great opportunity. You were incredibly passionate about retrieving Mr. Kuryakin's body. Your grief at losing your partner was a signal to Thrush. I hoped it would pan out, and it did. You have been contacted?" He already knew the answer, but he could read more questions behind Solo’s eyes. 

Solo blinked in reaction to the question. "Yes, sir, but what..."

Waverly plowed ahead as if this were a normal mission briefing. The sooner they regained order, the better he would feel. All this subterfuge really wasn’t his style. He preferred things in the open. "What assignment did they give you?" 

"Retrieve the formula for Dr. Hoang's virus,” Solo reported. 

A puff of smoke swirled lazily into the air as Waverly gave a brief nod. "Good. Mr. Solo, you will continue to act on Thrush's behalf.” He swiveled his chair to the left to face the Russian. “Mr. Kuryakin, you will be Mr. Solo's contact here at Headquarters. Anything he needs, you will supply it -- within reason." Silence again filled the room. Waverly had hoped that his top agents would be more alert than this. Had his deception affected them that deeply? 

"Sir?" Illya finally asked, his voice nothing like Waverly remembered it. The accent was still there, but his mistreatment must have roughened his vocal cords. A tinge of bewilderment accompanied the question, "What are you talking about?" 

"Yes, sir, what are you talking about?" Napoleon asked, complete bafflement twisting his features. 

Solo was taking this harder than he imagined. His decision to keep Solo in the dark gnawed at his conscious. His eyes flicked to Kuryakin, who looked just as lost as Solo had. Some of his bravado faded. "I refused to accept your resignation. I saw the chance to let Thrush believe that one of our top men quit. I hoped they would see your ostracization as an opportunity to approach you with a proposition to join up with them. And you have just informed me that my supposition was correct." 

Solo’s mouth opened and shut several times before he finally spoke. "So sir, what you're telling me is that I've been lied to for three months? My time in Tehran? Mashhad? It was all...a ruse?" 

The full magnitude of what happened to Solo and Kuryakin gnawed at his gut. Real regret twisted inside him, turning his stomach sour. These were men’s lives he was playing with. Sending Kuryakin on this mission, knowing the anguish Solo went through, giving Solo the ultimatum of his job or Kuryakin’s memory…he had done everything wrong. He underestimated Solo and Kuryakin’s friendship. He’d underestimated their loyalty to one another, especially Solo’s. When Solo turned and walked out of U.N.C.L.E., Waverly told himself that he was just being stubborn, that he would be back. The only reason Solo was back now was because of Kuryakin. And by the looks of them both, they were beyond shell-shocked. He pulled years of training to the fore to steady his voice. "I informed select agents of your resignation so it would seem believable." 

“Yes, sir, very believable,” Napoleon muttered. "I didn’t realize U.N.C.L.E. was in the habit of lying to its agents.” 

Not surprisingly, Solo had cut to the heart of the matter. It wasn’t U.N.C.L.E.’s policy, but Waverly had thought it the best way to get to Thrush with minimal amount of bloodshed. He’d watched too many good agents die. His cynicism was growing, as well as his doubts. Maybe his heart wasn’t in it anymore. At this moment, it certainly felt as if he’d been the one to lose a partner. "Napoleon," Waverly began, startling both men with the use of his first name, "You are too fine an agent to let go. If you still wish to resign after this assignment, I will honor your request. However, I hope you reconsider. I did what I thought best for U.N.C.L.E., as you would have done in my place." He decided to be honest with them to a fault. “I’ve had misgivings about sending agents into the field for quite awhile now. I don’t like seeing good people die. Thrush is a deadly enemy that must be stopped – but not by any means necessary. I’m growing cautious in my old age. I think maybe…”

“Don’t say it, sir,” Napoleon interrupted him again. 

“I must. The time has come for me to choose a successor. I’m only voicing what you already know. Mr. Solo, I hereby officially announce that you are my choice. Normally, you would be able to continue in field work until the age of 40, but if you wish to be promoted sooner, I could arrange for you to be Number One as well as be in the field. The process is tedious and feels like it takes years, so you would have plenty of time to adjust to the changes. What do you say, Mr. Solo? Is this something you desire?” 

~~~

Napoleon felt a headache beginning at the back of his head. Head of U.N.C.L.E.? Did he really want to be responsible for sending men and women into situations like the one Illya was forced into? Was promotion worth the price? U.N.C.L.E. was more important to him than he had ever wanted to acknowledge. What frightened him the most, was how important Illya was to him. More important than U.N.C.L.E., as he was willing to give that up, but not his partner. Not his lover. Not his friend. And now Illya said he didn't have him anymore. Was that immediate anger talking? When had he ever known Illya to be angry? The Russian was eerily level-headed in any crisis situation. The only time Napoleon had seen Illya lose control was when Russia itself was in danger of losing its wheat crop due to a virus several years ago. That anger had burned bright and fast. It was part of the passion that had drawn Napoleon to Illya in the first place. Would this burn out just as fast? Would Illya feel differently in a day? A week? He tried to catch Illya’s expression out of the corner of his eye, but stubborn partner that he was, Illya was studying the tabletop, careful to avoid eye contact. 

Illya's life had been spared; the least Napoleon could do was continue in the services of U.N.C.L.E., and make sure that Illya's life remained safe. 

"As you know, sir, I’ve been eyeing the top spot for some time," Napoleon answered finally, forcing his emotions back down. "I wouldn’t object to starting the procedure, but for now, I wish to remain a field agent.”

“Very well,” Waverly answered after a moment. "Mr. Solo, you will return to the motel. We've been monitoring your movements ever since Tehran, so if you get into any trouble, we will know immediately." 

A cold hand squeezed Napoleon's heart. That was the same thing they told Illya three months ago. 

“Mr. Kuryakin, you are to coordinate things here at Headquarters. Assemble a team to deal with this Thrush problem. Now if you will excuse me, I have a meeting I must attend.” Waverly stood and exited the room, leaving the two agents alone. 

~~~

The door closed behind Waverly in silence. Illya remained seated, too stunned to move. First Napoleon’s startling news that he quit, then Waverly says it was all a ruse. It was too much for his overtaxed body and mind to handle. 

"Illya." 

He recognized the pleading tone in his lover’s voice and chose to ignore it. "Not now, Napoleon. I'm tired." He pushed himself to his feet and shoved the crutch under his arm.

"Do you need a ride home?"

"I'm going to sleep downstairs." He meant the cells they used for Thrush prisoners, and he knew Napoleon knew what he meant. 

The expected protest was immediate and firm. "Those beds will aggravate your back. You need..."

"I need to be left alone," he snapped. He ignored the pained look on his lover's face as he walked past him. 

Napoleon’s tone turned back to pleading, "Illya, please. I want to explain..."

"I'm not interested in your explanations right now." Illya said it without malice, and Napoleon calmed a bit. Despite his exhaustion, he kept his tone restrained and in control. "How would you react to all this, Napoleon? I just found out my partner resigned, only to discover that it was a ruse. I've had a very tiring day. You've been so concerned about what you've been through, that you haven't stopped to consider what I've gone through." 

Accepting Napoleon’s silence for acquiesce, Illya hobbled out of the room, to the elevators and down to the cells, forcing his mind to not think. He found an empty cell and told the guards what he would be doing. 

Pill bottles rattled as he pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket. The doctor in Tehran explained in no uncertain terms that he had to take them until he was declared sufficiently healed by the medical doctor in New York. Charlie hadn't even mentioned them, so he knew he would be taking them for some time to come. He opened two bottles, shook out the correct dosage and downed the medicine. He grimaced as he swallowed a large gulp of water. He hated taking pills. 

Physical and mental exhaustion swept over him, and he almost didn't make it to the bed. He lay down on his side and was asleep in an instant.

~~~

Napoleon wandered back to the motel, lost in thought. He regretted Illya finding out about his resignation that way. He wanted to sit him down and explain what happened. Why he felt the need to quit. He didn't want Illya to feel responsible for his decision. It had all gone straight to hell. He couldn't look Illya in the eye and lie to him. No amount of charm or deception was able to withstand the glare that was the Kuryakin Gaze. Steadfast, sure and all-knowing. That was his partner. The familiar ache of not having his lover close by hit him once again. 

With a start, he realized he was at the door. He slipped inside and bolted the door behind him. He didn't think he could feel worse than when he thought Illya dead. He was wrong. The pain he saw echoed in Illya's eyes reflected his own -- pain of betrayal. Napoleon Solo, whom the ladies called smooth and the men called cool, had continually mucked up when it came to Illya. Did love do this to him? Had it made him soft? Was Illya truly his weakness? Could he be an effective agent, now? Did he want to? Would Illya return as his partner? Would he want to work side by side with a man he trusted with his life, whom he had lied to? Could Illya trust him again? 

No answers were forthcoming, and exhaustion claimed him before he could think of any more questions.


	7. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The point is that I need my partner!" Napoleon moved closer, desperation causing his voice to rise. "I risked everything for you."
> 
> Illya matched his tone. "And my point is that I didn't ask you to." 
> 
> "I wanted to. I wanted you back." 
> 
> "Fine! You've got me back. Now what?" Silence. Confused brown eyes met icy blue. Napoleon didn't know what came next. Things weren't the same between them. This Illya was almost a stranger.

The morning brought no answers. Illya's muscles were cramped from the cot, but he forced back the pain, took his pills, and went upstairs to grab a bite to eat. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten dinner the night before. Too much excitement; too much going on. Food had been the last thing on his mind. 

He felt raw. There were only a few agents on duty this early in the morning, but he felt as if their eyes cut right through him. Like they knew all his thoughts. All his insecurities. His nerves were twitchy, but not as bad as the first few days he'd tried to walk. He still tired easily. He could only walk for a few hours before his leg went numb. His back itched like crazy, and he couldn't scratch anything with his fingernails. He felt like Frankenstein's monster, pieced together of other men's parts and they didn't quite all fit. 

Blast that woman! He hated debriefing. Every time, these unwanted feelings cropped up and haunted him. He couldn't ignore them or shove them deep down until they quieted. They demanded to be shown the light, analyzed, and in general drowned out all else until he had no choice but to confront them. Since being partnered with Napoleon, he had another soul to help beat back the demons. An all night session with some good liquor and bad puns was his anchor. When they became lovers, it was assuring touches and comforting holds. But he always had something to help him. Thinking of Napoleon now gave him a headache. In U.N.C.L.E., out of U.N.C.L.E., working undercover, working for Thrush -- swirled around in his head. Overwhelmed, he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Too much information to absorb at once. He took a few breaths, not as deep as he'd like, but enough to calm himself. 

The first thing he needed to do was get current information on Dr. Hoang's formula. If it was indeed a deadly virus, then it needed to be protected at all costs. If it turned out to be a fake, then Napoleon could use it as bait for Thrush. Once that was determined, then he could think of other things. His stomach rumbled again, and he walked through the entrance to the cafeteria. 

It was early, even for U.N.C.L.E., and the cafeteria help was just setting up. He begged a cup of coffee and an orange from them and sat at a corner table. He started to peel the fruit, but the bandages hampered his process. He tensed as footsteps approached; he knew that walk. 

"May I sit down?" Napoleon asked formally. 

Illya flicked his gaze up to Napoleon, a silent nod his response. 

Napoleon grunted as he sank to the chair. "Rough night. I didn't sleep much. You?"

"The cot was uncomfortable," Illya admitted. "I've survived worse." Napoleon couldn't mask the wince at his words, and Illya ground his teeth in frustration. Would this always be between them? Would Napoleon always see his battered, unconscious body? 

"Illya, we need to talk about what's happened. Everything that's happened." 

"I said we'd discuss it later," he snapped. 

"When, Illya?" Napoleon pushed. "When things calm down? We're in the spy business; things don't calm down. This is likely to be as quiet as it's going to get." 

His clenched jaw started to ache, and he consciously relaxed his muscles. "It's nothing and everything. I just can't deal with this right now. I have a job to do, and so do you." He could feel Napoleon's eyes boring into his skull, but he refused to look up. 

"You're avoiding me, and I'd like to know why." 

"Do you need it spelled out for you?" he hissed, pitching his voice low despite his irrational anger. The last thing he needed was an audience. He felt enough stares on him as it was. 

"I'm just a dumb American," Napoleon reminded him of a conversation they had early in their partnership. "I need everything spelled out for me." 

Napoleon knew he was an intensely private man, yet he constantly insisted on knowing all of his life. Well, this was one time when he wouldn't give in. He refused to be bullied anymore. The orange shredded under Illya's fingers. He hissed as juice flowed over his fingertips. "Damn." He tried to shake off the bandages, but they were stuck tight. He cast helplessly about, but couldn't see anything that could help him -- except Napoleon. Blue eyes met brown. 

Without a word, Napoleon briskly removed the bandages and retrieved a wet cloth from one of the cafeteria workers. 

"Thank you," Illya replied formally as he wiped his hands. 

"That wasn't a smart thing to do," Napoleon remarked casually. 

Illya felt heat rising up his neck. This was their first chance for a real conversation in over two months, and all he wanted to do was fight. What was wrong with him? "Dumb Russian," he murmured. 

Napoleon's hand covered his. "I think we both had our share of dumb moments these past few weeks." 

Illya looked at their joined hands, emotions swirling through him. Want, need, love, anger, fear, all warred within him. He exerted pressure, not enough to squeeze, but enough to let Napoleon know he didn't mind the touch. Then he drew his hand back, lest any of the workers noticed. Napoleon seemed to sense why he did it and straightened, until they looked like two normal agents discussing business. 

"Illya, one thing we've never done is keep secrets from each other. You don't know how much it hurt me, not telling you about my resignation." 

"Apparently, all your hurt was for naught; the point is moot." 

"Yes, but I didn't know that. I found out Waverly's plan at the same time you did. We were both used." 

"I’m getting tired of being used," Illya muttered, heat in his voice. 

“So am I.”

Agents started filtering into the cafeteria, and Illya stood up. "Now is not the time for this conversation." 

"I agree." Napoleon studied the tabletop, and some sixth sense kept Illya from leaving. "When would be a good time?" 

"After you deal with Thrush and Dr. Hoang's formula. Once that affair is settled, then other things will return to normal." That sounded strange to Illya's ears. Normal. How normal had his life been up until now? How normal could it return to? 

"All right. I have to update myself on the mission. I'll see you later." Napoleon stood up and straightened his suit lapels. 

Illya couldn't help but feel a bit more grounded at that. No matter how impeccable Napoleon's appearance, he always found something to flick, adjust, smooth or settle. It was an unconscious habit; Illya questioned him about it once, and Napoleon had given him a blank look. It was his partner's version of a nervous twitch. 

Napoleon gave him a barely perceptible nod, and Illya returned it. Then they went their separate ways. 

~~~

Napoleon wandered the corridors of U.N.C.L.E., the familiarity calming him. So much had happened in such a short period of time, he barely had time to process it all. And he didn't have time to start now. He had a mission brief, documents to look over, and plans to iron out. He turned the corner and came face to face with his office door. It slid open effortlessly, as if anticipating his return. He cautiously entered, his gut twisting nervously. Things were just as he left them. His coffee cup had been cleaned out; he was grateful for that. And a few stacks of paper were new at the corner of his desk. But things looked the same. They felt the same. So why did he feel different? As if he were an intruder in his own office? Giving himself a shake, he walked briskly over to his desk and sat down. He started picking through the papers, reacquainting himself with the paperwork. His thoughts didn't stay long with the task at hand. They returned to Illya, and his behavior. Not knowing what was going on with Illya was a hole in Napoleon's life. What was he feeling? Did he make it through debrief? Had anyone given him grief upon his return? He doubted it, but one never knew with agents. There were a few in Section 2 who would love a promotion, and death of a senior agent was a very quick way to be promoted. It wasn't policy at U.N.C.L.E. like it was with Thrush, but it still happened. And despite his misgivings, a few cutthroats had managed to worm their way up U.N.C.L.E.'s ranks. 

Maybe they did get to Illya. His attitude was very off. Of course, he wasn't in top form, himself. 

He stared at the papers, the words blending together into meaningless nonsense. That’s what it all was – nonsense. What was the point? What use was it? He shoved the paper aside and stood up. It was all meaningless now. 

“Illya,” a voice whispered in his mind. Illya had risked his life for U.N.C.L.E.. He would finish this assignment, then inform Waverly that his decision to resign was still active. He would go through debrief, and all this would be behind him. His life would start over. 

Decision made, his nerves settled. A calm enveloped him, and he prepared for his mission. 

~~~

Illya stared unblinking at the monitor in the science lab. Numerous tests and projections left no doubt that the formula was a hoax. The chemical breakdown the lab carried out proved that it was no more harmful than a healthy dose of pesticide. The worst it would do was knock one down for 24-36 hours, with minimal side effects. What a waste of U.N.C.L.E.'s time. What a waste of energy and resources. And it was almost a waste of his life. A shudder ripped through him, and he forced his mind back to the problem at hand. Napoleon could now hand over the formula without worry of repercussions from Thrush. The notes on the microfilm were in Dr. Hoang's own handwriting. So all they had to do was hand over the formula and wait for Thrush to test it. Napoleon would be brought back into U.N.C.L.E.'s fold, and status quo would resume. 

But it wouldn't resume for him. Physical therapy, medications, training, and two more sessions with Roshenko stood in his way. His mind shied away from those thoughts, and he went back to correlating agents to back up Napoleon, what bugs and gadgets were needed to supplement the firepower of the stockade, and calculating the timetables when this whole thing would go down. The sooner, the better. 

~~~

Napoleon stepped through the doorway into the familiar area of the lab. Not familiar, himself, but because this was where Illya spent most of his time when not in the field. And here he found Illya, head bent over a file, alone. The lighting cast a pallor over the man perched on a stool, and he noticed for the first time how old Illya looked. It was startling. Illya was younger than he, and had been a field agent for much less time. Thrush had aged him. Aged them all. He suddenly felt much older than his 36 years. Was this what Waverly meant when he said most agents burned out before age 40? Was that the reason for the mandatory field duty retirement? He focused on the man before him. Illya hadn't registered his presence. Highly unusual. 

"Illya?"

Startled blue eyes met his. "Napoleon. I didn't hear you come in."

Napoleon's heart ached at the flatness of that gaze. Thrush had truly done a number on his partner. This time, though, it looked like it would take a lot more than liquor to soothe these pains. "I'm sorry. I was wondering if you were ready to go over the mission brief."

Illya closed the file and shrugged. "Might as well."

Napoleon took a seat opposite Illya, keeping the table between them. They discussed the mission like it was any other, though it didn't feel like old times. Illya was being very reserved, detached, clinical. Unemotionally involved. And he was trying to adjust for that, but it wasn't working. 

"Illya, are you all right? You seem distant." 

"I wonder why," Illya replied, his voice full of sarcasm. 

He closed his eyes, unpleasant memories fighting their way to the surface. "Please, Illya. We bickered all the time before you left for Mashhad. Let's not start again."

"You only say that now because I was better at it than you," came the smug reply. 

"I'm saying that because it's not getting us anywhere." Things weren't perfect between them. They fought just as much as any other couple. They had the added stress of being U.N.C.L.E. agents and risking their lives weekly, which added fuel to the fire. Now, both their tempers flared up at the slightest provocation. He remembered his actions in Tehran and felt heat on his cheeks. He controlled his emotions and tried again. "Are you being distant because of me?" 

"Do you want to discussion this mission or not?" Illya sidestepped the question. 

"I want to talk to you."

"We are talking."

"About us. You were right – I didn't consider what you've gone through while I was away. So, tell me."

"There’s nothing to tell."

"I think there is."

"What do you know about it?" Illya rounded on him, fury in his gaze. "I'm off active duty for an indeterminate time. They don't know when I'll be sufficiently healed enough to return to the field. Do you know what that feels like? Do you know how useless I am right now? I couldn't fight off a cold, let alone a Thrush agent. I'm weak, and a burden to this organization. It would be better if I accepted desk duty and never reapplied for field work." 

Napoleon tried to process everything at once. "You can't be serious. So you've had a setback. A major setback, to be sure, but it's not the end of the world. You'll recover. You'll grow stronger with time." 

"Time is against me, Napoleon. I'm nearly thirty-two. I'll be forced to retire from the field in eight years anyway." He shrugged. "What's the point?"

"The point is that I need my partner!" Napoleon moved closer, desperation causing his voice to rise. "I risked everything for you."

Illya matched his tone. "And my point is that I didn't ask you to." 

"I wanted to. I wanted you back." 

"Fine! You've got me back. Now what?" Silence. Confused brown eyes met icy blue. Napoleon didn't know what came next. Things weren't the same between them. This Illya was almost a stranger. His heart sank as Illya's tone reflected his thoughts. 

"Exactly. Now what do we do? Can things go back to the way they were? I don't think so. Not entirely. I don't know you anymore, Napoleon. I never would have thought you would give up U.N.C.L.E. for anything or anybody, and here you go and give it up for me. I don't want to live with the responsibility of having decided the course of your life." 

“You don’t have to. This was a choice I made.” 

“That I must now live with.” 

“We both will live with it. You’ll adjust; you’ll see.”

"Stop being patronizing, Napoleon." Those icy eyes sliced through him. "You really are a pompous ass, aren't you? Everything is not about you. In fact, this entire fiasco is about me. I'm the one who was captured and tortured. I'm the one who must deal with the consequences of that. I'm the one who has to go to physical therapy, and the doctors, and the psychiatrists. All you have to do is sit there and be comforting. Not exactly a tough job." 

Oh, no. He was not going to let that one by. "Do you think it's been easy for me, watching you? Feeling absolutely helpless? I'm not trained in medicine, but I know how badly you were hurt. I went over it in my mind, wondering how I could have prevented it. If I could have exchanged places with you, I would have." 

Illya snorted. "What purpose would that serve?"

“It wouldn’t be you,” Napoleon answered quietly. “I can handle my own problems; I don’t know what to do about yours.” 

They stared mutely at one another for minutes, before Illya spoke. "There is nothing you can do about my problems, Napoleon. I have to face my recovery alone." 

"No, you don't," he insisted. "I want to be there for you." 

Illya barked a short laugh. "To do what? You can't make me walk any sooner. You can't heal my knee any faster." 

"I can offer you support." 

"An arm to lean on when I stumble, you mean." 

"Don't twist my words around. I'm offering you help."

"I'm not asking for help. I’m not asking for anything." 

“Don’t shut me out, Illya. I want to help you.” 

"Like you helped me in Tehran?" 

Ominous, oppressive silence. 

Napoleon's throat was thick. "The choice to not follow up was taken from me. I had to follow orders." 

"You are my friend, Napoleon. You claim to love me. Yet you let someone else run the investigation? You sent someone else go to reclaim my body?" 

"What do you want, Illya? Do you want me to apologize for following orders? You know better than that."

“I said I didn’t want anything from you. I managed on my own this far; I can manage the rest of my recovery.” 

“Are you saying you don’t want me around?”

“You haven’t been around, Napoleon. Why would I notice a difference?” He waved at the door. “Go. Do your duty. And let me be.” 

A right hook caught him off guard, and he staggered back from the force of the blow. He stared at Napoleon in shock, holding his sore jaw. 

“You selfish bastard. You don’t get it, do you? We were hurt by Thrush this time, not just you. The moment we slept together, we became a part of each other. When you bleed, I hurt. When you stumble, I cry out. And when you hurt me, you’re hurting us.” He blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. “Is that what you want? Do you want an ‘us’ anymore?” 

Illya’s eyes were unreadable, a remarkable feat considering the emotions they were both dealing with. “No,” he answered simply, slicing Napoleon open to the bone. "It was all about control, wasn’t it? You didn’t love me; you just wanted to control me like you control everything in your life. I was just the next in line. You showed remarkable restraint, I’ll grant you that. You waited a whole five years into our partnership before putting the moves on me. Did you feel threatened by me? Was it Waverly’s increased attention to me? He appreciated my skills as an agent. He thought in a year or two, I would be promoted to Section One. Ironic, isn’t it? You would have been my superior officer, if this hadn’t happened.” He waved to his knee. “But it did, and how I have to rethink my future. I do know one thing; I will be back in the field someday, but I won't have you as a partner." He grabbed his crutch and started to walk away. 

Napoleon was too stunned to move. An aching emptiness slowly filled him, until he gasped for breath. On instinct, he reached out to capture Illya's arm, preventing his departure. "You’re wrong. So very wrong. I love you, Illya. And despite everything you’ve said, I still do. I can’t help what I feel. It took me a long time to see you as something other than a partner. Please, don’t do this to us. Don’t throw away what we have.” 

Blue eyes filled with glacial hatred met his. Seconds ticked by, measured in eons. "We have a mission to complete.”

Napoleon’s hand dropped to his side. Whatever demons Illya was battling with, he would have to face them alone. As much as it pained him, he turned and left the room, not daring to look back. He didn’t think he could stand to see the twisted hatred on Illya’s face ever again. 

~~~  
Illya stared at Napoleon's retreating back, a rage of emotions boiling inside him. He almost took a step after him, but knew his words had cut deeply. Why was he acting this way? Why couldn't he accept Napoleon's help? Why had he been so cold to him? Why was he so messed up? Was it Thrush's doing, or was more at work? Was it Roshenko? He'd been through debrief dozens of times, but never this bad. He let out a weary sigh. He was tired. So very, very tired. After weeks in a hospital bed, his resistance was low. Maybe that's all it was. His body and mind were run down. 

All those excuses didn't make him feel better. He'd hurt Napoleon; hurt him badly. It was unintentional, but somehow he doubted Napoleon would see it that way. Illya was a master at verbal assault. Silent, angry tears tracked down his face. He hated what he'd become. He hurt the one person in this world who was willing to stand beside him, see him through this rough time. 

His precious control, which he had clung to desperately, vanished like fog before the morning sun. He collapsed onto the stool and buried his face in his arms, allowing his pent-up feelings to surface. Weeks of inactivity, helplessness, wishful thinking of escape, determined stubbornness in the face of the enemy, losing his partner, purposefully angering his lover, self-loathing at his body's weakness, and finally, the discovery that his sacrifice was in vain, all poured out of him in one, agonizing, wretched, moment that lasted forever. 

Stripping his self-control and self-confidence left him a raw, aching shell of a man who had no one and nothing. No, he wouldn't think that way. He had to stop wallowing in self-pity. He was Number One of Section Two; that meant something. He was the toughest, smartest, and most qualified to head that Section, and he would prove it once again. Enough of this. He wiped his face and pushed himself to his feet. His leg ached terribly from all the strain, but he ruthlessly shoved it aside. Pain was unimportant. He had a mission and Napoleon was out there, by himself, with no backup. He made his way to communications, ignoring all those who stared after him. Let them stare. Maybe they would see what a true agent would give up for his beliefs. He was willing to give his life for Napoleon; it was time to show him. 

The communications girl offered little help. Napoleon hadn't reported in after he returned to the motel, unguarded. Illya immediately went on alert. "No one is watching him?" 

"No, sir," the girl replied smartly, though her tone gave away her true feelings. She was unhappy about an agent in the field with no backup. 

So was Illya. "I'm going out there. Have a car meet me out front." 

"Sir, are you sure?"

He glared at her. "My partner set a trap for Thrush. He doesn't have the formula to appease them. If we're lucky, they will only give him a sound thrashing." He didn't need to embellish further; they both knew what Thrush was capable of. If Thrush was disappointed enough, they would just shoot Napoleon, not bothering with anything else. 

The communications girl immediately called up one of the agents from Section One. "He'll be in front of Del Floria's in three minutes," she informed Illya.

He nodded sharply, and then headed to armory. If he was going to come to the rescue, he better be prepared.

~~~

Napoleon returned to his motel. Maybe it was time to reevaluate his contribution to society. Maybe the sacrifices weren't worth the rewards anymore. He knew he'd changed; he could see it in the lines on his face when he looked in the mirror. Bone-weariness struck him, and he had to fight to stay on his feet. It was all too much. It was time for a change. He laid on in a daze the rest of the afternoon. His mind refused to think; his body refused to move. His emotions refused to feel. He wasn't sure if he'd ever feel again. Numbness was a pleasant diversion. 

A loud crash roused him from his lethargy. An armed Thrush agent stood where his door had previously been. It hung from one hinge on a broken frame. The agent stepped aside, and a second agent stepped through the doorway. Napoleon recognized him as one of the Thrush from Mashhad. 

"I believe you have something for me." 

Napoleon stared at him blankly for a moment, before he remembered the formula. He stood up with a sick smile on his face. "About that..." 

A gun barrel met his ribcage. "I don't want to hear excuses, Solo. We've been waiting for your return. Now hand over the formula." 

Slightly out of breath, Napoleon stood tall. "It doesn't work. U.N.C.L.E. tested it and it's not a virus." 

"Impossible. Hoang worked for Thrush. He would not have lied to us." 

Napoleon didn't think; he went with instinct. "Why not? I lied to you." A blow to his stomach sent him crashing to his knees.

"Hoang will pay for his deception. And so will you, after you tell us everything." 

"Oh, come now gentlemen, where's your sense of fun?" He gasped as a foot connected with his back. The cold metal of a gun pressed against the back of his neck. "All right. Let me up." His voice was muffled by the carpet, but he was obviously understood. He was hauled to his knees. "Careful with the jacket." 

"You will tell us," the Thrush agent ordered. 

Mind whirling even while on his knees in front of Thrush, Napoleon called up on every reserve to make his bluff believable. "All right. First of all, I never did resign U.N.C.L.E. That was a ruse. One that worked rather well, all things considered."

He stared at the Thrush agent’s fingers flexing on the barrel of the gun. "For that, you shall die a horrible, painful death." 

"Yes, I'm sure. But don't you want to know the second part?" He waited expectantly, hoping the agent would fall for the bait. He'd seen movement outside the window and he presumed that it was U.N.C.L.E. If not, this was going to be a very short interrogation. 

"Well?" the agent snarled. 

Praying he was right, Napoleon stated clearly, "Second, my partner is standing behind you." 

The sneer was cruel and Napoleon wanted nothing more than to punch it off of the agent’s face as the agent taunted, "Kuryakin is dead." 

~~~

"Almost, but not quite," Illya snarled as he turned into the doorway. He swung his crutch, knocking the gun out of the Thrush agent’s hand. 

Napoleon dove from his crouch to tackle the other agent. They wrestled with the gun, and it went off. 

The shot was loud to Illya's ears. It echoed in his mind, getting louder and louder, until with a scream, he turned and slammed his crutch against the Thrush agent’s head. It jerked and the agent fell to the ground, motionless. 

Illya stumbled to the floor, where blood seeped into the carpet. No, no, no, not Napoleon, no, no...he shoved the Thrush agent off of Napoleon. Blood stained the normally pristine, crisp white shirt. He fumbled with the buttons, wanting to see how bad the damage was. 

Well-known hands pulled his away from Napoleon's chest. "Is this really the time?" Napoleon's voice rasped. 

Illya leaned down and kissed him soundly. 

A grin split Napoleon's face. "I thought you said you didn't love me?" 

Illya kissed him again. When he broke for air, he whispered, "I lied," and bent to the task of kissing once again. 

Napoleon moved restlessly underneath him and pushed gently against Illya's hold. 

"What is it?"

"I'm lying in blood, that's what. This is just a bit morbid for my taste." Napoleon stood and helped Illya to his feet. 

It took Napoleon standing and talking to him to make Illya realize that Napoleon wasn’t mortally wounded. "You're not hurt?" 

"I don't think so." He nudged the downed Thrush with his toe until he could see the wound in the goon's belly. "Looks like he took the brunt of it. I just had the wind knocked out of me. Then kissed out of me." 

The adrenaline rush was running down and Illya’s common sense returned in a flush of embarrassment. "I don't know what came over me. I was..."

"Concerned? Illya, partners are concerned about one another, whether they're involved or not. Having a relationship besides the partnership doesn't change that." He leered. "It just makes it more fun."

Having Napoleon Solo back with bad puns warmed his heart – not that he would ever admit it out loud. Napoleon was unbearable without any added incentive or encouragement. "You are incorrigible." 

"It's why you love me,” Napoleon answered succinctly. 

He hesitated before his voice dropped to a murmur. "I do, you know." He stepped into Napoleon's arms and held him in a tight embrace.

Napoleon’s voice held no mockery as he stated quietly, "I know." Strong arms circled his back, yet held him gently. "I'm sorry about the way I've been acting. I was upset and hurt."

Illya tilted his head back and gave his lover a quick kiss. “I am sorry, too. We have both been pig-headed.” He wrinkled his nose as the stench of blood off Napoleon’s shirt grew overwhelming. He stepped back, swallowing hard. “I believe it is time to call in the clean-up team.”

Clearly concerned yet allowing him privacy, Napoleon called Headquarters and updated them of the situation. The agent Illya hit was still alive, though barely. He would be held for interrogation. A warning was put out for Dr. Hoang, now a known Thrush agent, for all U.N.C.L.E. agents. 

~~~

It was by mutual agreement that the two agents retired to Illya’s apartment. Napoleon no longer needed to keep up the pretense of being undercover, and Illya secretly needed the grounding that only his familiar surroundings could offer. Exhausted by the day and with his leg throbbing, Illya took his medications and sat heavily on the right side of the bed, Napoleon joining him after a vigorous shower to remove the traces of blood on his skin. 

Napoleon joined him and pulled him down. "Napoleon," he warned.

"Relax, Illya. I just want you to lie down. You've had a busy day. You were swaying on your feet during the sweep. You need to rest."

"I need to talk."

"You can do both." Napoleon’s arms came around him. His chin rested on Illya's shoulder. "So, talk." 

Illya sighed and relaxed. "I may fall asleep." 

Napoleon chuckled in his ear. "I won't be offended if you do. And I'll still be here when you wake up." 

"Where did we go wrong?" 

"I'm not sure we did. Life dealt us some powerful blows, but we did the best we could." 

"It almost wasn't enough." 

Napoleon's grip tightened around Illya in wordless agreement. 

"Do you remember the conversation we had when you first approached me?" 

"Mmm, you'll have to be a bit more specific than that." 

Illya elbowed him gently. "We agreed that we wouldn't let our relationship get in the way of our duty."

"I know."

"Why did you quit?"

"Our relationship was no longer an issue. I thought you were dead. I wanted proof, but Waverly wouldn't approve my going to Mashhad. My only recourse was to quit and go on my own." 

"And if I had not been alive?"

Napoleon’s grip on him tightened. "I don't want to think about it. You were alive.“ He ran his hand along Illya's hair. "Do you know how many times I've feared for you? When Brother Love tossed the grenade out the window, I couldn't turn around, but I heard the explosion. I grieved for you, then. I did my duty, though. And when I contacted Headquarters and they gave me your status, you can't know the relief I felt. I wasn't expecting you at the airport. It was a pleasant surprise."

"I can't believe you remember that," Illya murmured. His body was growing heavy and his breathing even. He was falling asleep. 

"There are many other times I thought you were dead, but you always came back to me." 

"Y'too," Illya sighed as he slipped closer to sleep. 

"It was a struggle this time, but you came back once again. Always come back to me, Illya," he whispered. Quiet descended on the two agents, as sleep overtook them. 

~~~

Even with Napoleon’s presence, Illya only managed a night of partial rest. His panic at seeing Napoleon downed the previous evening signaled loud and clear that he was not ready to return to field duty. 

“You’re thinking too much again,” Napoleon murmured as he shuffled into the kitchen, ruffling Illya’s hair as he passed by to the coffee maker. 

Illya fiddled with his coffee mug, still full of now-cold coffee. The depths offered nothing helpful. Damn Roshenko for making him want to tell Napoleon things he would never otherwise admit. His eyes closed as he remembered the crushing feeling of dread freeze him. “I thought you had been shot yesterday. I saw you die and everything stopped…”

He felt Napoleon slide into the chair next to him and allowed the touch of a warm hand over his own. “The same happened to me, Illya, when U.N.C.L.E. declared you dead in Tehran. Time stopped; my life stopped. But it was a momentary…”

“How can you say it was momentary when you quit U.N.C.L.E. because of it?” Illya snapped. “We are a liability to each other…” he saw Napoleon’s retort begin to form and cut him off, “…and you cannot deny that fact.”

Napoleon’s mouth clicked shut, and then he sighed. “We have always been a liability to the other, even when we were first partners. If we didn’t care about our partner, on any level, then we would be no better than Thrush who allow those around them to fall without a thought. Whether I care about you as a partner, friend or lover, the fact of my caring remains the same. It doesn’t make us weaker; it makes us stronger.” 

A part of him wanted to agree with Napoleon, but the larger, louder, common sense won out. “I did not feel stronger yesterday. I felt helpless; something I only felt at the hands of Thrush in Tehran. I will not allow myself to feel that way again. I will transfer to the labs.”   
“No, I will accept Waverly’s successor posting and transfer from the field immediately.” 

“We both can’t quit the field, Napoleon,” Illya growled in frustration. “It may be months before I am released for field duty. You are already active. Logically, I should resign the field and you should continue…”

Napoleon’s crushing grip caused him to bite back a gasp. “I won’t go back into the field without you at my side. There is no other agent I trust so implicitly as I do you.” 

Now the American was just being stubborn. Eyes narrowed, he insisted, "You have to go back into the field, Napoleon. Your fire and your passion came from your work. Your dedication to U.N.C.L.E. Your..." The rest of his words were absorbed by Napoleon's mouth. Those lips pressed gently against his, not demanding, just comforting in their familiarity. Illya closed his eyes and let himself be comforted for awhile. 

"My fire and passion come from within, Illya. You, of all people, should know that." 

"Damn you," Illya growled softly, flush with his lover’s kisses. His hand reached out to rest above Napoleon's heart. 

Napoleon's hand covered Illya's on his chest. " I've missed you, too." 

Illya pulled his hand out from Napoleon's and sighed. “We have become maudlin and complacent. I don’t see how a future can come from this.” 

He chuckled at the spluttering of his partner. “You are too easy to fluster, my friend,” Illya murmured as he felt his body awaken sexually to his lover’s. It was dizzying, all but forgotten in the past few months, but familiar in its force and zeal. 

Catching on quickly, Napoleon stood and drew Illya to his feet, his hands caressing down Illya’s lower back. “I’ll show you flustered, my friend,” Napoleon challenged quietly as fingertips and lips began a well-worn pattern along Illya’s body.

The flush of arousal carried them back into the bedroom, where U.N.C.L.E., Thrush, duty and all else faded. 

The End


End file.
